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 the slovenliness of the inmate peeped out everywhere. Lucy could not harmonize that room with the man who had been so earnest, deep, and stern with her. The table, with photographs of half-naked ballet dancers upon it; the picture of some club upon the wall,—the photographer had immortalized it during a drinking bout,—with Jiří standing in the middle, smoking a pipe and grinning in a peculiar manner; the locked bookcase, with beautifully bound but dust covered books; the hopping canary in its cage, looking playful with its chubby head,—these impressions fell like molten drops into the depth of Lucy’s soul, where lay the picture of the man, the first who had held her respect.

She stepped abashed to the window. Drawing the shades, she saw before her a large garden in all its flowery beauty. A fresh breeze bore upwards the scent of the elders and flooded the room with it. The trees were in bloom. Their tops looked as