Lucy sized up the girl. She would look up, shake her head, and then go back to her reading or crewelwork. She had been obliged to wait all morning for the opportunity to talk to Martha, who chose always to retire to her cell for the period of recreation that preceded afternoon prayers. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. ’ ‘And your precious vicomte didn’t wish for the English one,’ said Charvill, acid in his voice.
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