Her aunt did not object to capital punishment or war, or the industrial system or casual wards, or flogging of criminals or the Congo Free State, because none of these things really got hold of her imagination; but she did object, she did not like, she could not bear to think of people not having and enjoying their meals. They walked across a moat of pea gravel that crunched like noisy cereal under their feet. Out of all this we have struck a sort of harmony. Her loneliness was consuming, Lucia. You are utterly baffling. On the one hand, she seemed to think plainly and simply, and would talk serenely and freely about topics that most women have been trained either to avoid or conceal; and on the other she was unconscious, or else she had an air of being unconscious—that was the riddle—to all sorts of personal applications that almost any girl or woman, one might have thought, would have made. Curiosity held her by one hand, urging her to recklessness, and caution held her by the other.
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