’ ‘Lucilla,’ gasped Hilary, his cheeks reddening with wrath. ‘As I have said, it was a quarrel between the vicomte and Monsieur Charvill. Never! Perhaps some day, quite soon, she might regret that breakfast-room. Hers was beauty on a large scale no doubt; but it was beauty, nevertheless: and the carpenter thought her eyes as bright, her complexion as blooming, and her figure (if a little more buxom) quite as captivating as when he led her to the altar some twenty years ago. He got off at Canal, and she exited behind the crowd. All at once her heart began to patter queerly. 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.
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