“So Brendon and I,” he said, “have been troubled with the same fears. "As yet," pursued the stranger, "Sir Montacute had placed no limit to his son's expenditure. She glanced at him. He flung himself backwards, hit the dais and fell heavily before the altar, losing his low-crowned beaver. She was perfectly aware that the boy had gotten some sort of bug in his craw over her despite her sloppy, strange appearance. I am Lucilla Froxfield, you must know.
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