You've got rid of Cecil--well and good, and
I'm thankful he's gone, though I did feel angry for the minute.
But why not announce it? Why this hushing up and tip-toeing?"
"It's only for a few days."
"But why at all?"
Lucy was silent. She was drifting away from her mother. It was
quite easy to say, "Because George Emerson has been bothering me,
and if he hears I've given up Cecil may begin again"--quite easy,
and it had the incidental advantage of being true. But she could
not say it. She disliked confidences, for they might lead to
self-knowledge and to that king of terrors--Light. Ever since
that last evening at Florence she had deemed it unwise to reveal
her soul.
Mrs. Honeychurch, too, was silent. She was thinking, "My daughter
won't answer me; she would rather be with those inquisitive old
maids than with Freddy and me. Any rag, tag, and bobtail
apparently does if she can leave her home." And as in her case
thoughts never remained unspoken long, she burst out with:
"You're tired of Windy Corner.
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