\" Lucy felt her face go hot, but at the same time raised her eyebrows, relaying a tacit acknowledgement of her own distressed appearance. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. He was certain that those lips of hers had never known the natural and pardonable simper of youth. “I don’t see what else I could have said,” he remarked. The Jacobite. I——” She threw herself into an easy chair. Nothing more forlorn could be conceived.
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