"Your mother is dead," interposed Wild, scowling. The girl who had just left the room was as great a mystery to him now as on the afternoon when he had met her in Piccadilly and taken her to tea. But I've not promised to stand by him yet; nor will I, unless he turns out an honest lad,—mind that. . Yet in some hidden corner was a vein of sentiment, of which for the first time in his later life he was now unexpectedly aware. “Mary Lucia.
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