. “What do you mean?” she asked. Mr. . ’ Lucilla Froxfield laughed gaily. . Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force. “Close your eyes. And now, when you come at last, you bring me this grandfather, and you dare to tell me I am like him.
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