“Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. She stumbled through a thorny copse, her slippers sliding on patches of sand that gave way to rock. She patted John's head with her palm, its surface appealingly fuzzy. She read voraciously, and presently, because of her aunt’s censorship, she took to smuggling any books she thought might be prohibited instead of bringing them home openly, and she went to the theatre whenever she could produce an acceptable friend to accompany her. It had been discussed in silence.
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