“Do you mean, aunt,” she asked, “that my father thought I had gone off—with some man?” “What else COULD he think? Would any one DREAM you would be so mad as to go off alone?” “After—after what had happened the night before?” “Oh, why raise up old scores? If you could see him this morning, his poor face as white as a sheet and all cut about with shaving! He was for coming up by the very first train and looking for you, but I said to him, ‘Wait for the letters,’ and there, sure enough, was yours. She was always so fertile that she could even impregnate herself using the semen from a corpse, which she did, as you found out. Dolby was portly and handsome. Lucy looked at the stains on the threadbare carpeting to distract herself, embarrassed to her core. He devoured her with his eyes too, his shyness not able to disguise his furtive glances at the curvy outline of her breast against the imitation silk, his memory still exquisitely tortured by her movements in the miniskirt. She would be enduing this chap with attributes he did not possess, clothing him in fictional ruffles.
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