Lucy clasped her hands over her ears as it screamed. “The one who used to live at Lyndmore. ‘Then it is that you will have pity? Here we have come, we poor, for aid. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. Why should she? she asked rebelliously.
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