A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. “Why don’t you wear your white blouse more often? It is the prettiest shirt you own. Miss Ellicot, who sang ballads, and liked Brendon to turn over the pages for her, tossed her head. Though not much passed the middle term of life, he seemed prematurely stricken with old age. ‘Something for you, Lucy?’ he asked, interrupting a heated argument that had obviously been in progress for some little time before their arrival. I shall have to discover one suitable. So here is your chance, Mademoiselle Charvill.
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