I suppose it is the mirrors and decorations. But it is my fault. He should never sufficiently be able to regret the return which they had made to her. . She hesitated in answering the door, her violin still crooked underneath her chin. He pictured himself visiting the girl in this shabby little home of her aunt’s—she had told him that it was shabby—and he recalled that delicious little smile with which she would surely greet him, a smile which seemed to be a matter of the eyes as well as the lips. “Why can’t you tell people that you are what you are? Why all the secrecy?” She looked beyond the farmhouse. The mother, Cathy Beck, was as patient and as charitable of an individual that Lucy had ever known, a big kindly Polish-American woman with the heart of an angel.
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