She was particularly charmed by his theory of friendship. Manning, relinquishing his cup without answering her question, “when I hear you talk of earning a living, it’s as if I heard of an archangel going on the Stock Exchange—or Christ selling doves. “Just forget it, Lucy! Keep your secrets to yourself!” He stomped out, slamming the heavily paneled oak door. You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked a gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,—that he did, the heathen. He saw rifts in clouds—sunshine. She thought then that she had shaken off the man of the bulging blue eyes forever, but that night she found he followed her into her dreams.
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