“Mean as an old mule, too. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. The afternoon was her own; but from eight until midnight she sat beside the patient. She held out both her hands. “But why, Lucy? Who is it 145 that you are trying to hide from? John?” Lucy closed her eyes in earnest. He forgot Annabel’s idle attempts at love-making, all the cul-de-sac gallantry of the moment.
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