‘That is my mother. It is in vain to struggle against the arm of fate. The oranges were of the Syrian variety, small but filled with scarlet honey. They mean everything that women can mean—except submission. It was a face that matched her body, so pure and beautiful that any man would have killed for her. In her usual style, she interviewed him for his life and was pleased that he liked nothing more than to talk about himself. \"Today's Friday, isn't it?\" Lucy remembered. One glance through the window at that picturesque head had been sufficient.
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