He looked melancholy enough, it is true. “Next door,” said a spectacled young person of seventeen or eighteen, with an impatient indication of the direction. I would have married her long ago, but she will not have me. ‘Go and fetch her home,’ he said; ‘it isn’t what we thought! It’s just a practical joke of hers. This woman knows me—’ throwing the remark at Lucilla ‘—and that I am the daughter of Mary Remenham.
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