” “I suppose people would say that it is a matter of temperament,” she continued. He righted a chair and sat in it, his face in his hands. “Why won’t you sleep in my bed tonight, Lucia, where 80 it’s warm?” He asked her one night, teasing but mournful, as she stood in her bedroom doorway in a long white gown. “Poor little Miniver! What can she be but what she is?. It was as if her aesthetic sense had become inflamed. My goodness gracious.
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