‘Do not speak of him. About two weeks ago. A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. It would be too mortifying. . She wondered if he was already tired of her, if he would rudely push her away as one would a prostitute. I am Lucilla Froxfield, you must know. Why, then, did he touch it? As he climbed heavily into his chair, she was able to note the little beads of sweat under the cracked nether lip. He hated to destroy it; but that was the obligation imposed; and he was an honourable man.
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