I did not know how he would act if I obstructed him. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. The stench was cheese-like and unbearable and Lucy dry-heaved. “Called myself Anna,” the girl repeated coolly. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. “You needn’t be anxious about that! I shall contrive to live.
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