His ideas about girls and women were of a sentimental and modest quality; they were creatures, he thought, either too bad for a modern vocabulary, and then frequently most undesirably desirable, or too pure and good for life. Lucia watched in fascination as Isobella nodded at her, only three years older than she, nursing her son with a contented smile upon her face. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them. “Tell him to drive—anywhere,” she exclaimed.
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