You are your own Heaven and your own Hell, Lucy. They came from every part, from the pit, the circle and the gallery, even from the stalls. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. “Where would you like to go? Are you hungry?” “No. "Is your father alive?" "No," returned Thames; "he was assassinated while I was an infant. Nature is a mother; her sympathies have always been feminist, and she has tempered the man to the shorn woman.
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