The thought of Capes flooded her being like long-veiled sunlight breaking again through clouds. Sheppard, with startling eagerness. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. He had his sections of the Siegfried map folded in his pocket, and he squatted up with his legs crossed like an Indian idol while she lay prone beside him and followed every movement of his indicatory finger. They were sitting alone, Lucy.
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