Everybody, he felt, must be listening behind their papers. Others are smart but fall prey to emotional damage, the female lunar instinct of cunning that goes awry. She touched bow to strings, playing a fifth. “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. Fresh ground, no chicory, and all the rest of it.
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