But he had always felt (he had never allowed himself to think of it) that the promptitude of their family was a little indelicate of her, and in a sense an intrusion. Chapter XXX SIR JOHN’S NECKTIE Sir John, in a quiet dark travelling suit, was sitting in a pokey little room writing letters. He did not like it, he said, with a significant look, to be reminded of either his books or his dinners after he had done with them. A spacious suite of rooms down the hall John described as “my parents love den” with a grimace as Lucy smiled. Upon this young fellow's face there were no wrinkles, only shadows, in the hollows of the cheeks and under the eyes. At last some anodyne formed itself from these exercises, and, with eyelashes wet with such feeble tears as only three-o’clock-in-the-morning pathos can distil, she fell asleep.
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