They reluctantly went back to school the Thursday after New Year’s Day. Her finger-nails dug into her flesh. Lucy collapsed to the floor in a sob. “Why can’t you tell people that you are what you are? Why all the secrecy?” She looked beyond the farmhouse. “They would spoil every chance. She lay very still and closed her eyes, hear tears gliding off of her ears, causing them to itch. Her long arms handled the sword with a memorized ease and grace. Something about the girl had suggested an idea. A grimy, battered object, which had no place in the fashionable quarter of town. Her heart swelled to suffocation. And in these crowded four weeks, what had she learned? That all horizons were lies: that smiles and handshakes and goodbyes and welcomes were lies: that there were really no to-morrows, only a treadmill of to-days: and that out of these lies and mirages she had plucked a bitter truth—she was alone. ***** Spurlock possessed that extraordinary condition of the mind which is called New England conscience.
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