Later, when they returned home, she would serve as the topic of many conversations. It was immediately opened by a man with light eyelashes and a manner suggestive of restrained passion. Tell Lucy about the time you were nine years old and blew up the house, John. In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone. She was obliged, as she explained continually to every one who cared to listen, to be so very particular. ‘You will please to tell this—this idiot to release me. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror.
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