This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. Why on earth couldn’t he leave her to grow in her own way? Her pride rose at the bare thought of return. ” “You have not told me yet,” Annabel said, “how it is that you have dared to personate me. God only knows what I have done, or left undone. Lucy felt her heart splinter in her breast. It probably still wouldn’t help. She read on and on, now thrilled by the swiftly moving drama, now enraptured by the tender passages of love.
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