“Very well,” said her father. Pile it on! But if you can hear the voice of the mote, the speck, don't let her suffer for anything I've done. There’s nothing happened at all!” She didn’t mean, he concluded, to give him any more trouble ever, and he was free to begin a fresh chromatic novel—he had just finished the Blue Lagoon, which he thought very beautiful and tender and absolutely irrelevant to Morningside Park—or work in peace at his microtome without bothering about her in the least. “You are coming in, aren’t you, Sydney?” “If I may,” he answered. “Very well,” he said, “I will go. ‘Is he meeting you here then, my dear?’ ‘He had better,’ said Lucilla.
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