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“Don’t you know?” “Oh! I know—” “Well—” Her face was an unaccustomed pink. Lucy did not move, but instead stared straight forward, her eyes focused on the desk where the presiding teacher on duty was supposed to be. The curve of his shoulders, the very angle of his feet, expressed relief at her apparent obedience. Love was joy, and joyous she was when alone. “I wish,” she said, “that you would leave off looking at me as though I were something grisly. He was braver than her husband, who paced and cowered in the corners of the once-sunny Palazzo. She speedily reached her own abode,—a little cottage, standing in the outskirts of the village.
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