Her foster father had been outside for most of the morning, working on trimming the maple trees and mowing the lawn. She saw her aunt in tears, her father white-faced and hard hit. The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. Lucy stole her last chance to observe Martin Chen, looking provocatively into his 257 eyes as the door was shut. She would often steal away to tryst with him in the orchard, even now she felt her loins grow warm with the memory of his ardor.
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