She sensed he might try and wane on her doorstep. “Yes, I will go,” she promised, with a queer little smile. Shortly afterwards,—it seemed an age to the anxious mother,—Mr. Deuce take it! I was very near spelling my name with one P. My uterus and my ovaries are gone. And all the old—the old trick of shrinking up like a snail at a touch. She took his hand in hers. You are your own Heaven and your own Hell, Lucy.
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