‘How do you do, my lord? I am Lucilla Froxfield. Manning loved her presented itself to her bloodlessly, stilled from any imaginative quiver or thrill of passion or disgust. He began a jerky, broken conversation that lasted until they reached the station, and left her puzzled at its drift and meaning. ‘Perhaps I could indeed rescue you if only you would confide in me. He seemed inexorable, and inscrutable as fate itself.
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