Your life is like a funeral March. “But why, Lucy? Who is it 145 that you are trying to hide from? John?” Lucy closed her eyes in earnest. An old man with a bent back who limped in, slow and stiff, leaning heavily on a cane. “My dear,” she said, when she could get her breath, “you must come home at once. “I think, perhaps if you will excuse me, that we will defer the luncheon.
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