There’s always friction, conflict, unwilling concessions. I must see if I have a gown fit to wear. At this point Lucy, in an effort perhaps—foolhardy, in Gerald’s opinion—to pour oil on troubled waters, rose swiftly to her feet and came towards the old man, her hand held out. She could hear him from the lower floor as he locked the gates and drew up the wooden part of the bridge. “My dear child,” he said, “with me you need have no apprehension. ‘I do not believe you.
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