Lucy sat in the back seat as the trio sped through intersections in the old sedan. A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls. Then, after Capes had been through her work and had gone on, it came to her that the fabric of this life of hers was doomed to almost immediate collapse; that in a little while these studies would cease, and perhaps she would never set eyes on him again. A short way off in the fields he descried a sort of shed or cow-house, and thither he contrived to drag his weary limbs. It’s all very fine and all that, Vee, this freedom, but it isn’t going to work. Do you expect me, I wonder.
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