He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. “I am sure, Anna,” she said, “I do not see why we should conceal the truth from you. Lady Ferringhall listened, and her cheeks grew pale. \"What's that?\" Lucy asked. A few days ago I saw him leave your house. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think.
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