Lucy was filled with happiness, it was her third Christmas at the Becks. “What is the good of pretending?” she said. We are alone, Sir Rowland," he added, snuffing the candles, glancing cautiously around, and lowering his tone, "and what you confide to me shall never transpire,—at least to your disadvantage. 5. She felt a hysterical desire to strike him, to burst out crying, to blurt out the whole miserable truth.
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