“My husband!” she laughed a little derisively. He took about five minutes. “The young women of Jane Austen’s time didn’t get into this sort of scrape! At least—one thinks so. “Lucy, do you forgive me?” She looked at him in earnest. It was as if she had grown right past her father into something older and of infinitely wider outlook, as if he had always been unsuspectedly a flattened figure, and now she had discovered him from the other side.
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