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. Not a word was uttered for some time, nor any sound heard except the stilled sobs of the unfortunate mother. “What? She replied, still hazy. That she possessed any sense of humour was in itself one of those human miracles which metaphysicians are always pothering over without arriving anywhere; for her previous environment had been particularly humourless. For four hours he had shifted his own troubles to the shoulders of these imaginative characters.
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