A young man, who had been spending the last hour walking up and down on the opposite side of the way, came quickly over to her. I used to go by the name Lucy Iovelli, which was my natural father’s surname. She had been sitting on the bench for two and a half hours, which was uneventful except for the homeless men who begged for change. He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him. This obstacle removed, he thought he might now make the attempt. He had a quick, shrewd, merry eye, and a look in which duplicity was agreeably veiled by good humour.
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