It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. Larry was able to retire. In a moment his grasp grew weaker. “I have been training myself to look askance at beautiful things. I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot. ‘And me—’ ‘You, mademoiselle, are more trouble than you’re worth, and I’ll thank you to —’ ‘Hilary, don’t,’ said Lucy, and Melusine’s rising temper cooled a little. He did everything. She turned her eyes to him again, and saw her late friend and pleasant and trusted companion, who had seen fit suddenly to change into a lover, babbling interesting inacceptable things.
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