When first brought under consideration, she was a miserable and forlorn object; squalid in attire, haggard in looks, and emaciated in frame. ‘He is not in England, you understand. Lucy jammed her foot down onto Mark McCloskey’s forehead. To a woman she might have confided; but to this man, kindly as he was, it was unthinkable. If he adhered to this policy—to keep away from her inconspicuously—she would forget the name by night, and to-morrow even the bearer of it would sink below the level of recollection.
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