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‘I—I mean, she were—’ ‘Pretty as a picture?’ suggested Gerald. Imbecile. Lucy’s solos were exquisite in their precision and expression. He could not tell by the look of her whether she was glad or sorry that presently she would be free. But he could only discern a black and shapeless mass, floating upon the water at a little distance, which, to his bewildered fancy, appeared absolutely standing still. I am Lucilla Froxfield, you must know.
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