This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. “I wish,” she said, “that you would leave off looking at me as though I were something grisly. He had said so. I’m sorry Lucy. For my blood you made it very hot indeed. And how could I come home—when he locks me in rooms and all that?” “I do wish this wasn’t going on,” said Miss Stanley, after a pause. ” He recognized the force, almost the passion, which trembled in her tone, and he at once abandoned the subject. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. No doubt there’s some little mistake. "Mr.
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