I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it. She then opened Lucy’s meager closet and plucked out a pair of heeled boots usually reserved for weddings and funerals. She produced from the depths of her pride the ugly investigatory note of the modern district visitor. I met you here as Lady Ferringhall. Manning called. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. He watched her constantly, trapped her in corners and slept with his arms locking her like a human cage.
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