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At this point Lucy, in an effort perhaps—foolhardy, in Gerald’s opinion—to pour oil on troubled waters, rose swiftly to her feet and came towards the old man, her hand held out. She's plenty clean below. "As yet," pursued the stranger, "Sir Montacute had placed no limit to his son's expenditure. He stopped before her suddenly. They were very nice about it, in memory of your father. ” To remain, she felt, was to concede everything.
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