She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. Lucy found solace in the lack of sunshine, but the November cold was over the top, even for Illinois. “Lucy, that’s horrible. A gust of irrational impatience blew through her being. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. “I have loved you,” he was saying, “ever since you sat on that gate and talked. All her pride raged at me.
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