The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. “My dear sweet Lucia. But in between these wider phases of comparative confidence were gaps of disconcerting doubt, when the universe was presented as making sinister and threatening faces at her, defying her to defy, preparing a humiliating and shameful overthrow. She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. And here she was—in a mess because it had been impossible for her to avoid leaning upon another man. “All day.
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