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He was alert, well-groomed, and yet—perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type—there was a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness. Lucy felt her heart splinter in her breast. She had taken care he should have this momentous talk with her on a garden-seat commanded by the windows of the house. “Anna of course would not accept any money from us,” she continued. She pushed him gently on the chest. A film of dust lay upon it; the ink marks were ancient.
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