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Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. Profoundly. “You’re burning up. To-morrow morning I shall have made up my mind what to do. He found Abraham on guard as he had left him. “It is not an easy matter,” he said, “for me to offer you an altogether adequate explanation. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. I needn't tell you to tread carefully.
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