The blouse dried nicely, it would only need a touch of starch and a little ironing. He knew. Lucy had passed the house once on the sidewalk, on a rare day when he was shoveling snow. There was something markedly and deliberately liberal-minded in his manner in all their encounters. As soon as dinner was over she went into the kitchen and devoted herself to compiling a tray—not a tray merely of halfcooled dinner things, but a specially prepared “nice” tray, suitable for tempting any one. "The poor things!" The manager laughed.
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