Wood made no reply; but, hastily kissing his weeping daughter, and bidding her be of good cheer, hurried off. Between his lectures—and primarily he was an itinerant lecturer—he manoeuvred in vain to acquire some facts regarding the girl, who she was, whence she had come; but always she countered with: "What is that?" Guileless she might be; simple, never. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth.
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