That old chap has a remarkable range in reading. Smith's melody had subsided. As usual, Lucy traced over parts of her experiences in her confidences with Shari, skipping lightly over her own 10 story as a pebble would over a lake. Heard of your last escape. The villagers were thronging to church. I’ll have to wait here, of course, which means you, Hilary—’ ‘Will have to do tomorrow’s patrol. It seemed to him that speech would be an anticlimax. The crowning aspect of the incident, for her mind, was the discovery that he and her indiscretion with him no longer mattered very much. She was shocked. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account. When mistress took and died—’ Joan broke off and sighed, moving away to the window.
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