“I see no reason why you shouldn’t. Sometimes—a lonely forlorn child—she had gone to him and put her arms around his neck. You are your own Heaven and your own Hell, Lucy. What was to hinder me, if I had been so inclined, from directing them to your retreat?" "Enough," replied Darrell. That was an admission all right. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. It had been brighter than the rest, for dawn light had come in through high unshuttered casements above the bookshelves. " "On the contrary, if that is a specimen, they must be poets. I would have twice the problems that I have currently. “YOU wouldn’t like to be independent?” he asked, abruptly. “Child!” he cried. She saw how overworked he was.
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