“Oh, Lucy. " It was curiously like the intermittent murmur of the surf, those weird Sundays, when her father paused for breath to launch additional damnation for those who disobeyed the Word. If Jack should die, all though her fault, she could never forgive herself. Wood then took to his heels, and never once looked behind him till he reached his own dwelling in Wych Street. Seven hundred forty-two dollars and eighty-one cents, the sum total of her money in the world that she hid in a filigreed cigar box shelved behind her schoolbooks. “You see,” said Ann Veronica, with the air of one who shares a difficulty, “I’ve promised to go.
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