‘How do you do, my lord? I am Lucilla Froxfield. And I’m off to America, and if my steamer goes to the bottom of the Atlantic I’ll thank the Lord for it. "I think I may trust him with you, Sir," added she, taking up the candle. Superimposed was the agitating thought of what would follow the death of this unwelcome guest: confusion, poking authorities, British and American red tape. “I’ll go,” she vowed to the night, “or I’ll die!” She made plans and estimated means and resources. This also struck her as odd. He became angry.
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