Again he played for her; and again the eruption of the strange senses that lay hidden in her soul. "Tut, tut! Don't exaggerate. You truly are your mother’s, Lucia. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. She was always the last person to exit after the crowds had stampeded, trailing slowly behind them like dust. " The order was promptly obeyed. A fortnight passed, then a month.
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