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” “How?” “Well—a little clumsily. Look at the poor victim at your feet. Her little white hand stole across the table. If you'd read your husband's dying speech, you'd know that he laid his death at Jonathan's door,—and with reason too, as I can testify. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. Go on. And yet, at the end of this prayer a subconscious thought broke through to consciousness. He grasped Lucilla’s elbow. Tell me why you ran away from the convent. But I want to know what you are doing. Strangers look in and long, and neighbours are moved to envy.
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