“Who the hell are you, Lucy?” “Promise me you will never tell anyone. But after all, what did it matter whether she had secrets or not? To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols. She would often steal away to tryst with him in the orchard, even now she felt her loins grow warm with the memory of his ardor. As far as I recollect, there were two. . "Miss Enschede—such an odd name!—are you French?" "Oh, no. ‘I’m only a poor country wench, child.
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