Lucy followed her. Sheppard. He drove her home that night, kissing her again and again at stoplights. "Thinking it likely you might desire to have this information, I prepared accordingly. I can no longer bear to address you by that formal madame. It was a neat, efficient-looking room, with a writing-table placed with a business-like regard to the window, and a bookcase surmounted by a pig’s skull, a dissected frog in a sealed bottle, and a pile of shiny, black-covered note-books. Brendon’s had an awful stroke of luck. “I heard the clock strike as I crossed the square,” she answered. The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire.
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