Lucy clutched the pencil in defeat. No matter how many books one read, each was different, as each human being was different. How would it serve Nicholas to keep the truth from his daughter? A tiny thread of disquiet troubled him. Not I. She imagined descending the stairs, hearing Mike’s uproarious laughter as she peeked around a vacant corner with a lump in her throat. Wood, reproachfully, as they returned to the parlour. “You are very kind to think of it,” she said, “but—don’t you think perhaps—that I had better not?” He smiled indulgently.
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