A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek. Treading with noiseless step over the soft mould, they soon reached the building. Her cheeks were aflame. “What happened to your parents, Lucy? Is it all right if I ask?” Lucy looked at her with a soft gaze. She had never been to the opera before except as one of a congested mass of people in the cheaper seats, and with backs and heads and women’s hats for the frame of the spectacle; there was by contrast a fine large sense of space and ease in her present position. Why, is the question I would like answered. The weed was all right.
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