Lucy tried not to notice the starched smell, overpowering and powdery. Her figure was perfect,—tall, graceful, rounded,—and, then, she had deep liquid blue eyes, that rivalled the stars in lustre. The night was clear and moonlit, dazzling with even light blue shadows that shone into manicured lawns and pristine gardens. She sank upon her knees and unbuttoned his coat. It was time to disappear, no more Becks, no more Spaghetti Nights, no more afternoon kisses in the park with John Diedermayer. "Well, my pretty dears," he added, "—to see your husband, eh? You must make the most of your time.
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