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” She went as far as her door, then turned to the window. “Like what, Lucy?” She saw the panic threaten to overtake him. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. “Who the hell are you, Lucy?” “Promise me you will never tell anyone. ‘I’m only a poor country wench, child. " "Ay, and there's my liver. ” She covered her face with her hands. The hand which the man had been holding hung limp and nerveless at her side. As I shall take and hold. It was not due to shyness: it was the inherent instinct of the Woman, a protective fear that she must retain some elements of mystery in order to hold the interest of the male.
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