" It was curiously like the intermittent murmur of the surf, those weird Sundays, when her father paused for breath to launch additional damnation for those who disobeyed the Word. They decided quite audibly, “She’s an Old Dear, anyhow. "Trenchard," he muttered; "Aliva Trenchard—they were right, then, as to the name. They were sitting alone, Lucy.
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