She put down the sketch-books and apparatus she had brought with her, pulled out her stool, and sat down. How many ends had he? Well, she must cease to trouble herself for this imbecile, whom it would give her very much pleasure to shoot. “Please forgive me, Lucy. Husbands and wives, young lovers, and mothers with strollers thronged in the streets, all savoring the fine cool weather. He must be a sly fox to get out of the Mint without my knowledge. He's the only native I trust in these parts. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. She was reasonably certain why.
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