Lucy’s solos were exquisite in their precision and expression. Her husband stared at her over the candle flame. The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. “I wonder what you could do?” he said. And, turning to his daughter, he gave the necessary directions in a low tone. I won’t try. Her faithful servant struggled, with her assistance, to rise.
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