For a long time,
thinking of that spirit of his, and what she felt it should be, she
had a persistent sense: "It must be there!" but she had determined to
believe this folly no longer. Nevertheless, when she met him at the
Sharons', she had been far less calm than she seemed.
People speaking casually of Lucy were apt to define her as "a little
beauty," a definition short of the mark. She was "a little beauty,"
but an independent, masterful, sell-reliant little American, of whom
her father's earlier gipsyings and her own sturdiness had made a woman
ever since she was fifteen. But though she was the mistress of her
own ways and no slave to any lamp save that of her own conscience, she
had a weakness: she had fallen in love with George Amberson Minafer at
first sight, and no matter how she disciplined herself, she had never
been able to climb out. The thing had happened to her; that was all.
George had looked just the way she had always wanted someone to look--
the riskiest of all the moonshine ambushes wherein tricky romance
snares credulous young love.
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