They began the evening like usual, driving down highways and byways. “Why won’t you sleep in my bed tonight, Lucia, where 80 it’s warm?” He asked her one night, teasing but mournful, as she stood in her bedroom doorway in a long white gown. ‘Come, cry a truce. ’ Mrs Ibstock’s lips tightened and she looked away a moment. “Anna,” she cried, “you must believe me. I consider even now that the present colour is far less becoming.
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