Once in England, she made all haste to visit Remenham House. Still —there you are!” He paused. His literary instincts were reviving. Something changed for her. And, mind! no prevaricating—nothing but the truth will satisfy me. The latter haughtily returned his salutation, and flung himself, as if exhausted, into a chair. Her girl, Clarice, was ten and just as pretty as a silver bell. She would be surrendering to all her impulses—particularly the good impulses—many of which society had condemned long since because they entailed too much trouble. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth.
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