At this point Lucy, in an effort perhaps—foolhardy, in Gerald’s opinion—to pour oil on troubled waters, rose swiftly to her feet and came towards the old man, her hand held out. ‘You are dead, you,’ he yelled back, leaping into the seat of the final pew. Lucy trudged upstairs behind 258 him and he put his hand on her shoulder and said, “I’m sorry about this evening. "Don't you know me, mother?" "Ah!" shrieked Mrs.
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