‘You’re only making things worse, you little idiot. ‘And she’s—’ She broke off, a sudden light in her eyes. . ’ ‘Aye, but she don’t reckon to militiamen. “Yes?” “You remember once, how we talked—at a gate on the Downs? We talked about how a girl might get an independent living. “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. She tiptoed into the entryway where some decorator had placed a live orchid upon a glassy ebony table.
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