She went up-stairs and hesitated between four doors with ground-glass panes, each of which professed “The Women’s Bond of Freedom” in neat black letters. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. She cried for hours but would not scream as her mother was packed into a marble coffin. She turned with an effort. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament.
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