Tonight Lucy doled out outré physiological theories of boys and their overactive hormones. The young lady with frizzled hair, whom Brendon had pointed out to her as Miss Ellicot, leaned forward from her hostess’s side. "I am twenty," said the girl. You don’t understand, Lucy, they just aren’t like that. Why had he kissed her? What had led him into that? Neither love nor passion— utter blankness so far as reducing the act to terms.
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