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. She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool. “Why can’t you tell people that you are what you are? Why all the secrecy?” She looked beyond the farmhouse. B. E.
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