“Forgive my coming in,” she said to Ennison. . ‘Would you have me face my maker with that on my conscience? If I’d died, there’d have been no one to tell you, for your father would not have done. “Is that so? Who says?” He demanded, his eyebrows arching as he looked at her with puerile glee. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety. Lucy was charmed; how peaceful the baby looked.
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