To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling. ’ ‘And you believe her?’ asked Lucilla, raising her brows. ‘And I trust you will pardon my inadequacies. "And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son. But no more of that. “Sure.
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