"Souls," she answered, drily. It was the gallows. Blue haze had settled beyond the black silhouettes of trees, graduating to the deep violet that began the night sky. And a custom had grown up of a general tea at four o’clock, under the auspices of a Miss Garvice, a tall and graceful girl of distinguished intellectual incompetence, in whom the hostess instinct seemed to be abnormally developed. \"Today's Friday, isn't it?\" Lucy remembered. Sheppard, fleeing from him to the farthest corner of the room. Both, perhaps?’ At that, her eyes darkened with fury.
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