She savored the sweetness of his lips, all of his great youth and passion and longed for his innocence, his complete lack of the knowledge of terrible things. “Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. “Dear me,” she said, “I fancy you exaggerate my fame. She found herself again in the presence of some element in life about which she had been trained not to think, about which she was perhaps instinctively indisposed to think; something which jarred, in spite of all her mental resistance, with all her preconceptions of a clean and courageous girl walking out from Morningside Park as one walks out of a cell into a free and spacious world. Hill, Meysey Hill.
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