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Father— dead. Splendidly. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. Perhaps she was. As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb. Hill, Meysey Hill. She had found that proof. “Lucy, are you feeling all right?” He asked concernedly. I love you all the more for the streak of sheer devil in you.
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