The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. “It—it—must come,” she faltered. The house had in fact been converted into a convent, but the fact could not be advertised, not even in the Catholic enclave that existed in this part of town. I never realized how fabulous all those homemade dishes were. 136 They came out and said it: Lucy was needed at home to cook and clean. “Every one.
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