Lucy could see the anger in her silhouette, the punishments and the grounding being formulated for the now dead daughter. Wood. He tore it down just as the Wastrel rose, wavering slightly. “But why, Lucy? Who is it 145 that you are trying to hide from? John?” Lucy closed her eyes in earnest. Ruth wore a printed cotton kimono. Then, in a few years, he and Ruth might fare forth in comfort and security. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. But here was a girl—she must be a girl, since she was his daughter and pat-able—imitating the woman quite remarkably and cleverly. It struck the major that she was very young. If only one might open the shutters and let in the light.
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