She could not say who, not yet. “Fearful old fogey! I can’t imagine any sister of yours putting up with him for a moment. He had come to Anna’s rooms from a dinner party, and he was in evening dress. We’ve deserted the posts in which we found ourselves, cut our duties, exposed ourselves to risks that may destroy any sort of social usefulness in us. He is delightful, is he not?’ ‘That will do, Lucilla.
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