Red velvet curtains rustled under dim lights as the door shut with a heavy snap. “I’m inclined to think, Stanley, myself that as a matter of fact it was the expurgated Romeo and Juliet did the mischief. “They seem to come to you as naturally as disappointment—to other people. Father and daughter regarded each other warily, each more than a little insecure with the other. Lucy looked at the stains on the threadbare carpeting to distract herself, embarrassed to her core. "This gentleman brings us tidings of an old friend, my dear," said the carpenter. Lucy had passed the house once on the sidewalk, on a rare day when he was shoveling snow. This laughter released something that had been striving for expression—her own natural buoyancy. Everybody seemed greatly concerned about the sincerity of Tolstoy. “It’s the spring,” he said. I don’t care if you’re not a virgin, that’s not how I really am. Light flooded the uncarpeted chamber, revealing the decayed state of the place.
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