Ennison paused by the little gate. Morningside Park had been passive and defective; all this rushed about and was active, but it was still defective. She jumped up at once, caught up a leather clutch containing notebooks, a fat textbook, and a chocolate-and-yellow-covered pamphlet, and leaped neatly from the carriage, only to discover that the train was slowing down and that she had to traverse the full length of the platform past it again as the result of her precipitation. I used to go by the name Lucy Iovelli, which was my natural father’s surname.
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