She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. Heaven alone knows why. She gaped at its keep, at least ten feet tall, a frightening gray coffin turned upright. It remains a bizarre idea to me that Lucy Alberti could ever become so detailed or so real, but I’m certainly glad to have made her acquaintance. I am having them to my own soirée on Monday. They walked side by side for a time.
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