Lucy saw that perhaps she had been attracted to Martin all along. "I've made no distinction between you, hitherto," answered Wood; "nor shall I do so, unless I'm compelled. From his wallet he brought forth a yellow letter. ‘Wait! No time for that. Yesterday!—who cared? To-morrow!—who knew? "Porpoise," she said, touching his hand. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. The lips of the mask twisted upward into a smile. Sydney sprang up.
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