"That's odd. “Do you think you’ll ever get married, Lucy?” Lucy shifted uncomfortably as she pulled her makeshift nightgown—an old T-shirt—over her head. The air was sharp and bracing, and the leaves which had taken their autumnal tints were falling from the trees. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. Her dress, it has just been said, was neatness and simplicity itself. She was curious to know why he had boarded a dingy train instead of hailing a cab or his own private chauffeur like the others in expensive suits were doing. The whole place had come to life, the magic seeped out of the walls. Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told. .
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