The vestry door opened to the mews behind, and not to Golden Square. The class laughed, a few putting their hands to their foreheads in a military salute to mock her. I did not have to dig deep in my imagination to create the status-obsessed suburban environment of Lucy’s modern milieu. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. "Hear! hear!" vociferated Quilt. I can’t help you a cent. If I surprised her, if I saw her alone, I might make her understand. .
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