"Begone, wretch!" cried the mother, stung beyond endurance by his taunts; "or I will drive you hence with my curses. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. Don’t you think that the shade of my hair is lovely?” “There is nothing particular the matter with the shade,” Anna answered, “but it is not nearly so becoming as before you touched it. "Don't go, I beg of you!" she implored. We can’t be lovers in the ordinary sense, but we can be great and intimate friends. A struggle of the most terrific kind now ensued.
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