She thought of Capes. A girl of fifteen or sixteen gave her a handbill that she regarded as a tract until she saw “Votes for Women” at the top. She could feel Michelle’s nervousness leaching into her spine. She became aware of the modelling of his ear, of the muscles of his neck and the textures of the hair that came off his brow, the soft minute curve of eyelid that she could just see beyond his brow; she perceived all these familiar objects as though they were acutely beautiful things. “That’s suicidal bullshit, Lucy. They don’t count, and I don’t care.
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