” And she knew that she was safe. Don’t be afraid that I shall stunt it. She had not gone by the name Lucy during those years but instead had called herself “Mary Lucia Iovelli”. “I am under police surveillance,” she said. She heard the rats scattering across the stone as dirt fell into the crypt. The drunken beachcombers; the one-sided education; the utter loneliness of a white child without playfellows, human or animal, without fairy stories, who for days was left alone while the father visited neighbouring islands, these pictures sank far below their actual importance. She crawled over and caught at the skirts of this white woman who understood.
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