The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. Lucy paced outside of the stone bricked room until her mother began to scream. He was always word-building, a metaphorist, lavish with singing adjectives; but often he built in confusion because it was difficult to describe something beautiful in a new yet simple way. ‘Do you at least know how he came to be in a position to cheat Miss Charvill, and to pass off his wife in her place?’ ‘In her place?’ There was no mistaking the boy’s ignorance of this part of the tale.
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