Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. And here she was—in a mess because it had been impossible for her to avoid leaning upon another man. “I am bored,” she said abruptly. She thought of her aunt and that purse that was dropped on the table, and of many troublesome and ill-requited kindnesses; she thought of the help of the Widgetts, of Teddy’s admiration; she thought, with a new-born charity, of her father, of Manning’s conscientious unselfishness, of Miss Miniver’s devotion. Wood then led the way up a rather high and, according to modern notions, incommodious flight of steps, and introduced his guest to a neat parlour, the windows of which were darkened by pots of flowers and creepers. “I looked for you on the way home from The Big Apple, where were you?” Lucy smiled. Part of his head was swathed in linen bandages. Mike chortled. Come along, my Newgate bird!" he continued, shaking him with great violence. "How goes it?" he began, heartily. “We’ve all been mixing our ideas, and we’ve got intellectual hot coppers— every blessed one of us.
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