Lucy slipped upstairs silently. “MY DEAR DAUGHTER,” it ran,—“Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. Stanley professed a great solicitude to warm his hands. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. “And what is it all about, Veronica?” he asked, with a deliberate note of irony, looking at her a little quizzically over his glasses. 165 “Uh, my parents are going skiing in Colorado after New Year’s.
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