“When did you get home last night, Lucy?” Cathy interrogated through a yawn. Not that there had ever been any hope of that. He had sufficient strength to wait upon himself. She never had been much of a looker, but she had stopped worrying about such things long ago. That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise.
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