. . From first to last, on this occasion, her aunt expostulated for about two hours. I have tried not to tell you—tried to be simply your friend. She slept in a bedroom clad in linens and skins, walked down hallways bedecked in the most gay and colorful frescos. Sheila wouldn’t allow me to date a boy even if he was only fifteen—I mean sixteen, like I am, you see. It was the blouse that gave Lucy away. For some seconds of voluminous thinking they looked at the ring between them, and neither spoke.
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