She was herself conscious of a recklessness of spirits almost hysterical. Martin said “Hi” to her in the halls every day now, a sure sign of trouble. “It’s still a marvel to me that we are to be forgiven,” she said, turning. The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity. Lucy clasped her hands over her ears as it screamed. He carried her in his arms up the steps, like a bride on her honeymoon.
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