The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. “When did you get home last night, Lucy?” Cathy interrogated through a yawn. Her hand came up and she laced her fingers with his. She taught me how to crochet and cross stitch. One might suppose him turning up; he knew a lot of clever people, and some of them might belong to the class. There wasn’t, I know, between myself and my father.
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