At this point Lucy, in an effort perhaps—foolhardy, in Gerald’s opinion—to pour oil on troubled waters, rose swiftly to her feet and came towards the old man, her hand held out. Almost light-heartedly. The day was unseasonably humid and dark, a thick fog having descended over manicured lawns. What was the objection? She found it impossible to look her own diffidence in the face. ‘Like a vision she were.
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