I don't know; I really don't know," she found herself repeating. The mother, Cathy Beck, was as patient and as charitable of an individual that Lucy had ever known, a big kindly Polish-American woman with the heart of an angel. Ruth's emotion was a primitive joy: she was essential in this man's life, and she would always be happy because he would always be needing her. She was a lone white woman, therefore marked. But it never said: "Tell someone! Tell someone!" Was he something of a moral pervert, then? Was it what he had lost—the familiar world—rather than what he had done? He stared dully at the footrail. ’ ‘It is true,’ insisted the lady. Were it not for your voice, I don't think I should know you. If he wants you, let him get you. She would have just to keep the fifteen pounds until she could make it twenty. F.
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