. He squinted and a disgusted look came over him. Lucy sized up the girl. “You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. She followed him about persistently, and succeeded, after a brisk, unchivalrous struggle (in which he pinched and asked her to “cheese it”), in kissing him among the raspberries behind the greenhouse. Through all this flutter of novelty there came and went a solicitous, preoccupied, almost depressed figure. There’s nothing happened at all!” She didn’t mean, he concluded, to give him any more trouble ever, and he was free to begin a fresh chromatic novel—he had just finished the Blue Lagoon, which he thought very beautiful and tender and absolutely irrelevant to Morningside Park—or work in peace at his microtome without bothering about her in the least. Jonathan Wild's House in the Old Bailey XVII.
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