Mr. “Why won’t you sleep in my bed tonight, Lucia, where 80 it’s warm?” He asked her one night, teasing but mournful, as she stood in her bedroom doorway in a long white gown. " While he was thus musing, he fancied he heard the lock tried. She warmed to him fast, her anger was much harder to carry than the pleasant everyday neutrality of affection. That is what my mother used to call me.
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