For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. A creeping numbness invaded her. The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise. She had not gone by the name Lucy during those years but instead had called herself “Mary Lucia Iovelli”. He was no longer in military uniform, and it was evident from his suit of brown brocade that he had been disturbed while preparing for an evening engagement.
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