She propped a pillow against his padded headboard and sat herself into a stiff upright position, legs expertly crossed. She glanced at him. She found herself again in the presence of some element in life about which she had been trained not to think, about which she was perhaps instinctively indisposed to think; something which jarred, in spite of all her mental resistance, with all her preconceptions of a clean and courageous girl walking out from Morningside Park as one walks out of a cell into a free and spacious world. Sir John gave his order, deliberately stumbling now and then over a word, and anglicizing others. Lucy loved orchestras, the bittersweet tinge of rosin dust that hung in the air, the way that the sun shone through filthy windows illuminating the marimbas with a storybook light. “But if you weren’t keen on the suffrage business, why on earth did you go to prison?” Ann Veronica reflected.
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