Anna, in her strange striking way, was radiantly beautiful. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. “Larry buys the meat, makes the stuffing. ‘Hang it all, Mrs Sindlesham is right! You are two of a kind. Could she go through with it? She must. She shrank from him as he gripped her hand more forcibly.
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