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Lucie Dumas is one of those books where the voice and the atmosphere feel almost like the same thing. The setting isn’t just background—it quietly shapes how Lucie sees herself and everyone around her.
The London here feels very real, but in a small, contained way. It’s not big or dramatic—it’s rooms, streets, routines. There’s a kind of closeness to everything, like her world never quite opens up. Even when things seem stable, there’s this sense that something’s pressing in—and you can feel that in her relationships too.
Nothing there feels completely settled. Her connection with Monsieur isn’t really romantic in the usual sense—it feels more structured than that, but also uneven in a way that never fully goes away. It all looks calm on the surface, but there’s always something slightly unresolved underneath.
What I found most interesting is Lucie herself. She understands what’s going on—her past, her situation, the people in her life—but that doesn’t mean she can change it. There’s a kind of distance in how she sees things, like she’s aware of the limits around her but still stuck within them.
The story moves between Lyon and London, but it doesn’t build to one big moment. It just unfolds. You see how one part of her life leads into the next without any clear break. There’s no dramatic turning point—just this gradual sense that her options are narrowing.
A lot of the emotional weight comes from what’s left unresolved. Her separation from her son isn’t treated as one big event—it’s just there, in the background, shaping everything else. It gives even the quieter moments more depth.
It’s not a heavy book in an obvious way, but there’s a quiet sadness to it, especially later on. The way time passes, and how her world slowly becomes smaller, is done very subtly, which makes it land more.
It’s definitely more about character than plot. If you like slower, more reflective books, it’s worth it.
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