At least the sun would not be as bright, which was a welcome reprieve from the mercilessly bright early summer days which had invigorated every man, woman, and child in the suburbs but were wearing Lucy down into acute fatigue, along with her hunger. Sepulchre's church was covered—so was the tower. Just as Hogarth got to the door, the turnkey stopped him. “Well, I don’t want you to talk to him,” he said, very firmly. He had not bothered to take off his raincoat and his umbrella sat dripping on his modern ice cube of a table. Things were thrown here and there, to be taken up, or again cast aside, as the whim arose; while the broken-backed chairs and crazy table bore the marks of many a conflict. Lucy felt her eyes misting up, turning traitor.
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