And now she comprehended that the man (she had never known him by any name) knew she had surprised the look and had not resented it. By this time, she had so far succeeded in calming herself, that she answered the greetings of the neighbours whom she encountered on her way to the sacred edifice—if sorrowfully, still composedly. Her hair was gathered up behind, in a sort of pad, according to the then prevailing mode; and she wore a muslin cap, and pinners with crow-foot edging. “Have you no understanding of your own advanced history classes? You want to look like a brainwashed Nazi anti-Semite?” Lucy became angry, her nostrils flaring. Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. I consider even now that the present colour is far less becoming. You are too credulous. They were very nice about it, in memory of your father.
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