I used to go by the name Lucy Iovelli, which was my natural father’s surname. She was bathed in turbid water that had already been used. She would come and sit cross-legged just beyond the bamboo curtain and silently watch him at work. “It’s okay. You don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical.
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