The mother, Cathy Beck, was as patient and as charitable of an individual that Lucy had ever known, a big kindly Polish-American woman with the heart of an angel. "You mean you were just sorry for him?" "As I would be for any human being in pain. Where her husband saw only two youngsters in the mating mood, she felt that tragedy in some phase lurked in this room—if only in the loneliness of these two, without kith or kin apparently, thousands of miles from home. Help! help!" But her cries were unheeded. His lips parted in a rare smile. She sat herself upon the bed. Then one old crone, short-sighted and shaky-handed, called Ann Veronica “dearie,” and made some remark, obscure and slangy, of which the spirit rather than the words penetrated to her understanding. “If it’s about that dance project,” he said, “it’s no good, Veronica.
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