’ ‘Then what?’ demanded Lucilla in a hushed tone. She also knew that he was the type who would not make a single physical overture until she pushed the correct buttons. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. No! That was impossible. I can’t help you a cent. For the first time, perhaps, in his life, he repented of his brutality.
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