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 spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sunshine of youth —a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold. I’ve been wondering where she got her dogged will, and that hot-headed adventurous spirit, for it wasn’t from either Mary or Nicholas, that’s sure. The tables were then cleared. ‘And you, my girl, if you’d been born at all, would have been just what you think you are.
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