Father and daughter regarded each other warily, each more than a little insecure with the other. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. ” John said to Lucy. "I could almost forgive the wretch the injury he did me in depriving me of my poor dear wife—No, not quite that," he added, a little confused. A little darling? Lord in heaven, he had taken leave of his senses. ” “You could never be that,” he answered, “but you are at least more serious than usual.
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