The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park. You would want me to be clean, if you gave me a thought, that is. Their small talk continued. “Won’t you sit down,” she said, “and tell me what you want to say?” Her voice was flat and faint. Lucia confined herself to her quarters, wondering when they would flee to the country as so many other houses had done. You did not say a word about it last week, nor have you written. “Damned Rascal!” he said.
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