’ Lucilla Froxfield laughed gaily. A male voice, vibrant with terror, yelled out hoarsely. She could smell his cologne underneath his collar, or perhaps his aftershave. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. The light fell upon the fugitive, who stood before him in an attitude of defence, with the child in his arms.
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