The last thing that she remembered was her eyes crossing as she tried to focus upon the crunch of leaves as she lay heaving upon them, dampening them further with the outpouring of her sweat as it leaked from her clothing. The both of them puttering about the tidy two-story house, Lucy would serve them both steaming cups of tea in the front parlor. What he wanted desperately was to be alone. It had been part of her wedding trousseau, a gift from her family to his. “I wish,” she said, “that you would leave off looking at me as though I were something grisly.
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