Lucy was filled with happiness, it was her third Christmas at the Becks. Not with the unavoidable explanations, and the need to secrete the sword and hide it before returning the priest’s horse to its stable—which had been her excuse for running from Martha’s protestations. The sky periodically pummeled her with hail pellets as she would pass through the deserted intersections. Vexation at his folly in suffering himself to be thus entrapped kept Wood for a short time silent. “I want,” he said, with a white hand outstretched, “to take you out to tea.
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