’ Lucy was silent for a space, once again wearing that inscrutable expression. I could not become an Oracle. Her mother informed her of the betrothal on the first painful day of her menarche, shortly after her eleventh birthday. Some of the delicate colour which the afternoon walk had brought into her cheeks had already returned. On the one hand, she seemed to think plainly and simply, and would talk serenely and freely about topics that most women have been trained either to avoid or conceal; and on the other she was unconscious, or else she had an air of being unconscious—that was the riddle—to all sorts of personal applications that almost any girl or woman, one might have thought, would have made.
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