Lucy thought of a song that she had not been able to get out of her head since the Fifties. Everybody talking of you. Nervously he pulled alongside the dilapidated oncewhite farmhouse. Then she would have quiet times, in which she would say to herself, “Now look here! Let me think it all out!” For the first time, it seemed to her, she faced the facts of a woman’s position in the world—the meagre realities of such freedom as it permitted her, the almost unavoidable obligation to some individual man under which she must labor for even a foothold in the world.
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