When Jack entered the cell, she was talking to herself in the muttering unconnected way peculiar to her distracted condition; but, after her eye had rested on him some time, the fixed expression of her features relaxed, and a smile crossed them. He picked up the broken fiddle and beckoned. No one will ever love you as I love you now. She could not explain in words why they disappointed her or that she was disappointed. “He’d better treat you right this time or I’ll pulverize him, you hear?” Lucy gave in to the hug. “You are very kind to think of it,” she said, “but—don’t you think perhaps—that I had better not?” He smiled indulgently.
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