“Poor Lucy!” Cathy exclaimed as she rushed in the door, umbrella sheathed. I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it. “If one was free,” she said, “one could go to him. John turned toward the short staircase as she alit upon the first creaky step. ‘Don’t fob me off, boy. Lucy found solace in the lack of sunshine, but the November cold was over the top, even for Illinois. " "Six," he corrected.
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