"My own father!" Queerly the room and its objects receded and vanished; and there intervened a series of mental pictures that so long as she lived would ever be recurring. They crossed the street, and entering the front door passed up the outside stone steps of the flat. "Dear me!" she added, as she pledged the amorous woollen-draper, "what a beautiful ring that is. You're rich. She had not gone by the name Lucy during those years but instead had called herself “Mary Lucia Iovelli”.
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