She HAD cried, Ann Veronica knew. She made an abrupt personal appeal. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. ‘Do you think I do not know? What am I doing here, do you think?’ ‘That’s just exactly what I’ve been asking myself,’ he returned. But she did not listen long; she wanted to talk. A long chest under one of the windows was open, some of its contents dragged out and spilling onto the floor. Women are hypocrites to the last—true only to themselves.
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