Tonight Lucy doled out outré physiological theories of boys and their overactive hormones. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. A hazy face appeared through the fog of sleep, pale and thin and looming. ‘Idiot!’ ‘Enough, now! Softly, you little termagant,’ he ordered, seizing her wrists to hold her off. "No offence," returned Jonathan.
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