She felt sharp animal teeth pierce her above her shoulder. I—listen. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. “My dear sweet Lucia. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. ‘Maybe not,’ Gerald conceded, ‘but I’m damned if I herald my approach with a lot of unnecessary blundering about in the dark. “Women are mocked,” she said.
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