"Well, how goes it?" he asked. It was not due to shyness: it was the inherent instinct of the Woman, a protective fear that she must retain some elements of mystery in order to hold the interest of the male. “I confess it. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. “Lucy, do you forgive me?” She looked at him in earnest. "My own father!" Queerly the room and its objects receded and vanished; and there intervened a series of mental pictures that so long as she lived would ever be recurring.
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