Lucy could see the resemblance of Martin to both of his parents as plain as day. She had looked forward to an explanation. Then he had gone away. Perhaps I ought to have let you order the dinner, but I think I got through it pretty well. Sordid; but that was not Ruth's term for it; she had no precise commentary to offer. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. “I don’t want children, Lucy.
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