"Yes. ’ ‘You traitor, Gerald,’ laughed Lucilla, her yellow curls bouncing under a huge straw bonnet all over flowers. There was no way of recalling the words; so she waited. He had almost forced himself upon her one night after a particularly bloody raid of a thatched cottage. I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot. She was slender, and sometimes she seemed tall, and walked and carried herself lightly and joyfully as one who commonly and habitually feels well, and sometimes she stooped a little and was preoccupied.
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