The mother, Cathy Beck, was as patient and as charitable of an individual that Lucy had ever known, a big kindly Polish-American woman with the heart of an angel. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. For so far she had kept it uncashed. “I wish they did,” he said, “but they don’t. I tell you that I love you, Anna, and I believe that you love me. ‘You see, unlike you, mademoiselle, your cavalier here would not wish to be arrested.
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