She swallowed hard. There were moments when she doubted whether the whole mass of movements and societies and gatherings and talks was not simply one coherent spectacle of failure protecting itself from abjection by the glamour of its own assertions. Lucy sat in back of Jane Lenihan, who never spoke to her. The stranger looked at him as if strongly disposed to chastise his impertinence. A boy no older than she, Gianfrancesco’s cousin, whispered what he would like to do to her when she stole into the hallways near the women’s chambers to fix herself.
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