She was dressed in a simple evening gown of soft creamy silk, with a yoke of dark old embroidery that enhanced the gentle gravity of her style, and her black hair flowed off her open forehead to pass under the control of a simple ribbon of silver. He is the kind of man who would much prefer a little dust in his eyes. Lucy thought of a song that she had not been able to get out of her head since the Fifties. In fact, the whole face had undergone a transformation. At every step he seemed to be haunted by the ghost of the past.
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