“Are you going on again this winter with that scientific work of yours? It’s an instance of heredity, I suppose. She moaned as she touched him. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. ‘Your mystery lady, I mean. ” Lucy stated. Her feathered hat fell from her head and down her back, and she felt fingers writhing in the mass of her hair and caressing the flesh of her neck beneath so that she shivered uncontrollably. Perhaps her odd beauty—and that too was natural—stirred these thoughts into being.
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