The dog was, in a sense, a gift of the gods. She never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them. D'ye hear. Your father…. Lucia had never been so happy, so content. It wasn’t anything splendid, you know. His ideas about girls and women were of a sentimental and modest quality; they were creatures, he thought, either too bad for a modern vocabulary, and then frequently most undesirably desirable, or too pure and good for life. A lovely, fetching girl.
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