Lucy thought of a song that she had not been able to get out of her head since the Fifties. The man who staggers, whose face is flushed, whose attitude is either noisily friendly or truculent, has some chance; liquor bends him eventually. Sheppard. “No!” she exclaimed. But not finding it, he had again recourse to the bludgeon, and began beating the hand fixed on the upper rail, until, by smashing the fingers, he forced it to relinquish its hold. It was horrible, but what could she do? She meant to live her own life, and he meant, with contempt and insults, to prevent her.
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