To hand the key back in silence was like offering a lie. I am Lucilla Froxfield, you must know. A curious silence ensued. I don’t want to hear you. Her aunt was making herself cuffs out of little slips of insertion under the newly lit lamp. ’ I wanted, as I have never wanted before, to take you up, to make you mine, to carry you off and set you apart from all the strain and turmoil of life. I care for you. ‘And I do understand.
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