Lucy sat beside him. “I’ll go,” he said, “but I warn you that I shall find you out. ” She looked at him with fluttering eyelids—sweetly grateful. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. She could not hide her face. A true nun. Her back arched and she felt herself instinctively sinking into him. She was faint from hunger, her head spinning into dizziness, the blood madness readying for battle.
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