She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. I shall want you. ‘Is he meeting you here then, my dear?’ ‘He had better,’ said Lucilla. One of her duties, after she had been taught to read, had been to read aloud after breakfast and before going to bed.
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