198
MAGDALEN
The funereal bell continued ringing. She walked rapidly over the steps and through the avenue of trees, and out of the park.
The aunt was standing in the yard and speaking with the stewardess.
“They think, Lucy, the poor fellow has died,” she called out to her.
That short sentence stirred every nerve of hers. And yet, it seemed to her, she had known it before, that somebody had told her so in the park. She did not ask who it was, she did not ask anything,—she knew it all. . . .
