Lucy grabbed his shirtsleeve, whispering on tiptoe. They could no longer stay in one place. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. He liked to draw her in, and she did her best to talk. He slid out of her. “Miserable bounder,” he murmured. She let her mind run into dreams of that cloud paradise of an altered world in which the Goopes and Minivers, the Fabians and reforming people believed.
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