I’m in a mess—a nasty mess! a filthy mess! Oh, no end of a mess! “Do you hear, Ann Veronica?—you’re in a nasty, filthy, unforgivable mess! “Haven’t I just made a silly mess of things? “Forty pounds! I haven’t got twenty!” She got up, stamped with her foot, and then, suddenly remembering the lodger below, sat down and wrenched off her boots. “Sir John of course disapproves of me,” she remarked slowly. She glanced at the Frenchman, and found him struggling with the portrait that was embedded around his scalp. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth.
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