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“But why, Lucy? Who is it 145 that you are trying to hide from? John?” Lucy closed her eyes in earnest. Smith: "ho! ho!" "How condescending!" thought Mrs. Lucy was filled with happiness, it was her third Christmas at the Becks. Disperse in every direction. Her figure, though slight, had all the fulness of health; and her complexion—still pale, but without its former sickly cast,—contrasted agreeably, by its extreme fairness, with the dark brows and darker lashes that shaded eyes which, if they had lost some of their original brilliancy, had gained infinitely more in the soft and chastened lustre that replaced it. Spurlock knew exactly what he was doing, however: speculative mischief, to see how she would act.
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