“Then turn round and go back there,” she directed. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. I didn’t! I didn’t! After all—” For a time her mind ran on daintiness and its defensive restraints as though it was the one desirable thing. Lucy cringed, her eyes widening. Tom Sheppard was always a close file, and would never tell whom he married.
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