Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. ‘Has this capitaine of yours not yet rid us of this Emile? What can he find to say to him?’ ‘Don’t be impatient,’ Gerald said, rising too and coming to draw her away from the door. Wood's bed-chamber—it was locked, with the key left in it. Presently he began to weave a tale, sorry enough, with all the ancient claptraps and rusted platitudes. These sham ideals and advanced notions. The tables were then cleared.
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