"The end is the most beautiful in English literature. No one could take the place for anything but what it was, and even Gosse hesitated in the doorway. “I have been very selfish,” she declared. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. “Why can’t you tell people that you are what you are? Why all the secrecy?” She looked beyond the farmhouse. She was naturally weaker, she would tire quicker, and she need not concern herself with the peculiar obligations of honour obtaining amongst gentlemen. “Ah, Vee,” he said, “that’s better! and kissed her back rather clumsily.
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