It was cheating, pitiful cheating. There's the grand laced coat he wore at his trial, which I intend for my wedding-dress. ‘Yes, a very sad story,’ agreed the major. She could smell the savory tinge of his sweat in the air. She was acquiring truths, but in a series of shocks rather than by the process of analysis. If the young ladies were dowerless, which seemed likely, their attire at least—so Lucilla assured him in a whisper—was of the first stare.
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