“They might do you good,” she remarked. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. Looking for something, or someone, probably. “MY DEAR FATHER,” she wrote,—“I have been thinking hard about everything since I was sent to this prison. ‘It will suit me very well that you go away, because you are a person without sense and I do not wish to talk to you. One side of the face was white with foamy lather and the other ruddy-cheeked and blue-jawed.
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