Lucy followed her. ‘I am not French in the least, bête. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. If he decided to watch television upstairs with his mother, she would probably retire before he did, but she was a light sleeper. But the possible attitude of her father she had still to face. Nature is a mother; her sympathies have always been feminist, and she has tempered the man to the shorn woman.
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