Thinking of Mantua, she wandered to the courtyard. The gong will go at seven-thirty. ‘It is imbecile that you are. “How are you, Lucy?” Martin ran to catch her in the crowded hall. He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him.
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