That a longing of hers should be realized in this strange fashion was difficult to believe: it vaguely suggested something of a trap. “Lucy Albert, sir. "Ah! I see. Spurlock: 'tis Roundhead, sure enough. The bars dropped noiselessly and slowly down, till the chain tightened at the staple. "Leave him to me," he said. She understood. To many in that crowded solitude it came as an extraordinary relief. So she built a shrine. It’s no half reform either. In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. Clotilde’s stunning green eyes were reflected in the gazes of the tender young children, but their faces had been hollow and sunken, their hair matted, and their clothing in bad need of repair. Then a third secretarial opening occurred and renewed her hopes again: a position as amanuensis—with which some of the lighter duties of a nurse were combined— to an infirm gentleman of means living at Twickenham, and engaged upon a great literary research to prove that the “Faery Queen” was really a treatise upon molecular chemistry written in a peculiar and picturesquely handled cipher.
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