The curtain before one mystery was torn aside, and she saw in reality what lay behind the impulse that had led her into the young man's room. Me—I’m nothing but a country wench, and one who went to the bad. It was nearly one o’clock; but there were lights still in all her windows. Lucy changed into her Goodwill jeans and sweatshirt, plastering her hair down with an elastic band and securing it under a tight hood. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. There were shadows under his eyes. People shrug their shoulders and call me a crazy socialist.
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