It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. "Though you lorded it over that fond fool, Mrs. “Mom, this is the girl I asked to Prom, Lucy. “Dinner is served, m’m,” said the efficient parlor-maid in the archway, and the worst was over. But she had found it very difficult. Never for a moment had violence come between these two since long ago he had, in spite of her mother’s protest in the background, carried her kicking and squalling to the nursery for some forgotten crime. It was debauching, this—a devilish art which drew such strange allurements from a face and figure almost Madonna-like in their simplicity.
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