The scanty furniture of the rooms corresponded with their dungeon-like aspect. She carried herself well, whereas her brother slouched, and there was a certain aristocratic dignity about her that she had acquired through her long engagement to a curate of family, a scion of the Wiltshire Edmondshaws. “I promise, Lucy. "So it is," the doctor agreed. Probably he has something to say and can't say it, or he writes well about nothing. On the one hand, she seemed to think plainly and simply, and would talk serenely and freely about topics that most women have been trained either to avoid or conceal; and on the other she was unconscious, or else she had an air of being unconscious—that was the riddle—to all sorts of personal applications that almost any girl or woman, one might have thought, would have made. ‘His granddaughter?’ ‘Yes, his son’s daughter. “Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent.
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