Of course, it was ridiculous, this inclination to assist the fugitive, based as it was upon an intangible university idea. “Why won’t you sleep in my bed tonight, Lucia, where 80 it’s warm?” He asked her one night, teasing but mournful, as she stood in her bedroom doorway in a long white gown. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. She wanted to stay where she was; but tears were dangerous; the more she wept, the weaker she would become defensively.
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