Lucy jammed her foot down onto Mark McCloskey’s forehead. If you had any idea what depths people have sunken to as you reside safely in this high fortress, you would search your soul to find the mote of charity left there. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. They shared one class, Advanced Geometry. Neither of them joined in the applause which followed upon her exit. I know all about it.
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