Mr. "Go!" said Lady Trafford; "it is my last request. The stranger with a bow returned to his table. “Good-bye, John,” she said simply. She read voraciously, and presently, because of her aunt’s censorship, she took to smuggling any books she thought might be prohibited instead of bringing them home openly, and she went to the theatre whenever she could produce an acceptable friend to accompany her. The perception of him flooded her being. Lucy vomited onto the floor at the sight of her mother dying, the black spots expanding across her corpse. You see, it is that I begin to like you, even that you are of this disposition extremely interfering. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure.
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