He looked just like John Wayne in a cowboy movie, his eyes narrow and squinting, except his hair was long, unruly, and jet black. The sunshine was brilliant, the air mild. Lucy thought of a song that she had not been able to get out of her head since the Fifties. She did not learn the kind of looks she had been bestowing upon him at a convent. You know not what a wretched guilty thing I am.
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