Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. 192 Her skirt had ridden almost to her hips. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. “You will have some tea?” she asked. She had not gone by the name Lucy during those years but instead had called herself “Mary Lucia Iovelli”. She breathed deeply of the starch of his shirt. 1 through 1.
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