Sanguine they were not. You are different, Lucia, undamaged even after what you have been through, still pure of heart. She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool. It had ceased raining, but the atmosphere was moist and chill, and the ground deluged by the recent showers. Soon they came to treat Lucy almost as mother, pulling hard at her brown curls and laughing delightedly as they sprang back into their spiral shape. Too damned chickenhearted to confess to me he’d run off with the woman. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother.
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