Lucy stole her last chance to observe Martin Chen, looking provocatively into his 257 eyes as the door was shut. “I wish he had,” she said. Ray Plote would not leave a written explanation. Without her, it was lonely. Her little bedsitting-room was like a lair, and she went out from it into this vast, dun world, with its smoke-gray houses, its glaring streets of shops, its dark streets of homes, its orange-lit windows, under skies of dull copper or muddy gray or black, much as an animal goes out to seek food. He was smiling under his heavy mustache, and his head was a little on one side as he looked at her. I can’t even make myself care. After the dance, they went to a party.
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