"It is droll," he said. Lucy stood in front of the piano. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear. He looked up to see an ancient coach making its ponderous way down the street. It isn’t such fun as it seems. It is really amusing. A shy virgin bride would not press her thigh sinuously against his, nor consent indeed to this clandestine little comedy he had been playing. He will be hanged—hanged—hanged.
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