When I carried you up here like a bride, that is the way I wanted us to be, Mary Lucia. I know something about men. What else could he do? You can’t kick up a scene on the spur of the moment in the face of such conflicting values as he had before him. You bring me this grandfather, whom you know well I do not in the least wish to see, for I have told you so. Your life is like a funeral March. Stars appeared in the periphery of her vision. Not fit to be dust on your boots. Sometimes—a lonely forlorn child—she had gone to him and put her arms around his neck. More importantly, she had her wits.
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