Lucy took refuge in her little harbor of ignorance. “I don't know,” said she.
“But you like me, don't you, Lucy?”
“I don't know.”
“Don't you like me better than you like Johnny Trumbull?”
“I don't know.”
“You like me better than you like Arnold Carruth, don't you? He has curls and wears socks.”
“I don't know.”
“When do you think you can be sure?”
“I don't know.”
Jim stared helplessly at little Lucy. She stared back sweetly.