’ ‘I presume you were not with her in France?’ Kimble stared. ” It was her last evening in that wrappered life against which she had rebelled. She was dressed in one of those complicated dresses that are all lace and work and confused patternings of black and purple and cream about the body, and she was in many ways a younger feminine version of the same theme as himself. . Lucy had baked the apple and pumpkin pies, carefully molding the flour crusts and adding extra teaspoonfuls of allspice and cinnamon while no one looked. Her father, her own father! She remembered now a verse from the Psalms her father had always been quoting; but now she recited it with perfect understanding. He touched a long-standing sore, and Ann Veronica found herself vainly trying to explain—the inexplicable. He would know her address to-morrow. It’s awkward, but we’ll get round it somehow. Nothing is settled upon.
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