Spring Breeze

Spring Breeze
Sweet Nothings
The Abduction of Psyche
The British Are Coming
The Broken Pitcher
Lucy looked at a collection of twelve or fourteen lumps of rock, some polished and some rough.
"Lovely," she said kindly. "Most interesting."
"You're quite right. They are interesting. You're an intelligent girl. I don't show them to everybody. I'll show you some more things."
"It's very kind of you, but I ought really to get on with what I was doing. With six people in the house –"
"Eating me out of house and home…. That's all they do when they come down here! Eat. They don't offer to pay for what they eat, either. Leeches! All waiting for me to die. Well, I'm not going to die just yet - I'm not going to die to please them. I'm a lot stronger than even Emma knows."
"I'm sure you are."
oil painting
"I'm not so old, either. She makes out I'm an old man, treats me as an old man. You don't think I'm old, do you?"
"Of course not," said Lucy.
"Sensible girl. Take a look at this."
He indicated a large faded chart which hung on the wall. It was, Lucy saw, genealogical tree; some of it done so finely that one would have to have a magnifying glass to read the names. The remote forebears, however, were written in large proud capitals with crowns over the names.