Shamefaced curiosities began to come back into her mind, thinly disguised as literature and art. “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. The slack of her ridinghabit and full under-petticoats was gathered into her left hand, and her booted ankles were visible as she held the skirts well out of her way. You cannot arrest yourself. “And let us have a talk about this—some other time.
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