He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. “And so you have been thinking?” her father began, quoting her letter and looking over his slanting glasses at her. “I wanted to make love to you. But it is my fault. Leaving the library by the same door she had first used to enter it earlier that day, she crossed the two little antechambers and moved on through the rooms. ‘You mean—’ ‘Hilary!’ Lucy turned excited eyes back to Alderley. That dress she has on—my mother might have worn it.
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