The booming voice and the energetic movements spoke plainly of hurry. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. "By the avenger of his family's dishonour—by your brother," he replied, coolly. After all, they’re history in the making. He was a good foster dad that had never so much as leered at her, not even once. What duty does a girl owe to any one before her father? Obedience to him, that is surely the first law. She tried to imagine herself “getting something,” to project herself as sitting down at a desk and writing, or as returning after her work to some pleasantly equipped and free and independent flat. She fled. It was the end, she told herself, fiercely. It is the horse of the priest, you understand, and—and he does not know that I have borrowed it. A spacious suite of rooms down the hall John described as “my parents love den” with a grimace as Lucy smiled. "Let it pass.
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