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For some reason the desert scene before Lucy Bostil awoke varyingemotions—a sweet gratitude for the fullness of her life there at theFord, yet a haunting remorse that she could not be wholly content—avague loneliness of soul—a thrill and a fear for the strangely callingfuture, glorious, unknown.
She longed for something to happen. It might be terrible, so long as itwas wonderful. This day, when Lucy had stolen away on a forbiddenhorse, she was eighteen ye