It seemed as if each time her imagination reached out investingly, an invisible lash beat it back. ” She shook her head. A middle-aged countrywoman, plump of cheek, and a little shy. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. If the young ladies were dowerless, which seemed likely, their attire at least—so Lucilla assured him in a whisper—was of the first stare.
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