"What for?" rejoined Quilt, evasively. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. Just what in the world was that about? Before he could hazard a guess, Lucy looked back at him. Perhaps, she may tell me whose picture this is. The commissionaire smiled. “When did you look up my mother’s records at the Joliet library, Michelle?” Lucy asked, trying not to incriminate herself by sounding confrontational. ” “I cannot let you go on,” Ennison interrupted. Help—should she need it—from the natives was out of the question.
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