Lucy thought of a song that she had not been able to get out of her head since the Fifties. The likeness was ridiculous. “There’s the classes,” said Constance, the well-informed. The effort to maintain her self-control was almost superhuman. He had made it even easier by walking up the steps instead of taking the elevator. His eyes looked a little bloodshot to her; his face had lost something of its ruddy freshness.
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