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. The light of memory flashed in the man’s face. Did he not look for her in the morning when she entered—come very quickly to her? She thought of him as she had last seen him looking down the length of the laboratory to see her go. “The Holy Ghost! The Pope! My mother!” She squealed. He was Julian five years younger, the spitting image.
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