“You poor little girl!” he cried. A handy knife, and a good tot of something sharp to clean out the wound. See paragraph 1. Lucy clutched the pencil in defeat. Even the abstract paintings on the wall were gray. In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis. The cold air gave her gooseflesh under her red brocade dress as she slipped outside. Lucy savored the normalcy of the scene. Nobody ever called me John, that I recollect. She appeared to be considering. Her mind turned and accused itself of having been cold and hard. She meant to leave anyway, or so she would tell herself later.
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