The little matter of an accent may be misleading, I grant you, but —’ He was interrupted, and with impatience. Lucy grabbed his shirtsleeve, whispering on tiptoe. I want to get away—to go to London. A sea voyage under sail will be the making of him. Straitened circumstances would not have mattered; a mother would have managed somehow. The house was eerily silent, which alerted her to the idea that someone might be listening. “He’d better treat you right this time or I’ll pulverize him, you hear?” Lucy gave in to the hug.
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