“Do you think you’ll ever get married, Lucy?” Lucy shifted uncomfortably as she pulled her makeshift nightgown—an old T-shirt—over her head. Her features were still slightly marked by the disorder alluded to in the description of her as a child,—but that was the only drawback to her beauty. What was the objection? She found it impossible to look her own diffidence in the face. Her mind jumped with questions as fear raced through her and hardened into a bid for retaliation. By your father, Sir Montacute Trenchard's will, you are aware,—and, therefore, I need not repeat it, except for the special purpose I have in view,—you are aware, I say, that, by this will, in case your sister Aliva, died without issue, or, on the death of such issue, the property reverts to Constance and her issue. ‘Oh, peste. . “You must pack for me. You must think of this evening, John, sometimes—as a sort of atonement.
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