But, after all, it will be different. Lucy stole her last chance to observe Martin Chen, looking provocatively into his 257 eyes as the door was shut. “It’s either now or never,” she said to herself. END OF THE SECOND EPOCH. ’ Even as they watched, a shadow passed across one of the apertures. Another day of nonsuccess would mean many disagreeable things. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. Even Lucy’s bra and panties, the ubiquitous polyester underwire and matching cotton bikini briefs from Kmart, were gone. She charged boldly into the space of Miss Miniver’s rhetorical pause. She began rubbing it with her pocket-handkerchief. I expect company.
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