I'm used to insult as I am to misfortune, and am grown callous to both; but I'm not used to compassion, and know not how to take it. ” Lucy added, growing weary. And yet that could not be: it was a confession only in the event of his death. Her eyes flashed. She then opened Lucy’s meager closet and plucked out a pair of heeled boots usually reserved for weddings and funerals. “They might do you good,” she remarked.
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