One of them was a stout square-built man, with a singularly swarthy complexion, and harsh forbidding features. She had never felt so acutely the desire for free initiative, for a life unhampered by others. But his gloom appeared to be occasioned by remorse, rather than sorrow. “It was inevitable,” he declared. But she was not sure just how to reach it. The both of them puttering about the tidy two-story house, Lucy would serve them both steaming cups of tea in the front parlor.
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