She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. "Open my heart, Father of Mercy!" she murmured, in a humble tone, and with downcast looks, "and make me sensible of the error of my ways. All the rest is humbug and delicacy. It's all your fault, you shaking coward! and, but that I feel sure you'll swing for your carelessness, I'd throw you into the well, too. Lucy thought of herself as belonging to Sebastian whether she liked it or not. As if we didn’t know! The practical trouble is our ages. I consider her a very charming young woman—and I won’t hear a word about Paris, for there are things I don’t understand about that, but I will stake my word upon it that to-day Miss Pellissier is entitled not only to our admiration, but to our respect.
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