I’m rather scornful. My death, probably. “Do you think you’ll ever get married, Lucy?” Lucy shifted uncomfortably as she pulled her makeshift nightgown—an old T-shirt—over her head. Her impressions of this cardinal ceremony were rich and confused, complicated by a quite transitory passion that awakened no reciprocal fire for a fat curly headed cousin in black velveteen and a lace collar, who assisted as a page. “And think, think”—her voice sank —“of the horrible coarseness!” “What coarseness?” said Ann Veronica. “I’ve broken off my engagement,” she said, in a matter-of-fact tone, and found her heart thumping in her neck.
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