She was dressed in a simple evening gown of soft creamy silk, with a yoke of dark old embroidery that enhanced the gentle gravity of her style, and her black hair flowed off her open forehead to pass under the control of a simple ribbon of silver. Lucy sat in the back seat as the trio sped through intersections in the old sedan. "There's Sharples," cried Quilt. But in the train going home her aunt reasoned it out.
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