"To paint your portrait," answered the jailer. Lucy’s bright tones pursued her. “Bother it all!” she swore. It was in another world from that in which men will die for a kiss, and touching hands lights fires that burn up lives—the world of romance, the world of passionately beautiful things. And now her father said she must not go. She yielded it without protest, as though unconsciously. What he wanted desperately was to be alone.
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