"Since you feel as you do, I'm afraid that's impossible. Mr.
Doyle's roof is the only roof I have."
"You have a home," he said, sturdily.
"Not now. I left, and my grandfather won't have me back. You
mustn't blame him, Pink. We quarreled and I left. I was as much
responsible as he was."
For a moment after she turned and disappeared inside the pharmacy
door he stood there, then he put on his hat and strode down the
street, unhappy and perplexed. If only she had needed him, if she
had not looked so self-possessed and so ever so faintly defiant,
as though she dared him to pity her, he would have known what to
do. All he needed was to be needed. His open face was full of
trouble. It was unthinkable that Lily should be in that center of
anarchy; more unthinkable that Doyle might have filled her up with
all sorts of wild ideas. Women were queer; they liked theories. A
man could have a theory of life and play with it and boast about
it, but never dream of living up to it. But give one to a woman,
and she chewed on it like a dog on a bone. If those Bolshevists
had got hold of Lily--!
The encounter had hurt Lily, too. The fine edge of her exaltation
was gone, and it did not return during her brief talk with Willy
Cameron.
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