‘Why do you think I told you about the portrait? I’d not seen it, of course, but I’d seen Miss Mary just before she got married, which is when it was painted. A door in this house opened upon the yard. Lucy could see the anger in her silhouette, the punishments and the grounding being formulated for the now dead daughter. Wood was heard without, angrily demanding admittance. The sun was all but gone now, the horizon a deep shade of purple. “About my sister,” she repeated slowly.
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