Lucy was silent. The lamp was not yet lit, and in the dim light he bent forward as though trying to look into her averted face. “Garçon,” he said, “will you ask the gentleman at the next table if he will do me the honour of taking a glass of wine with me. Sheppard prepared for church. ” The redness in his face betrayed him. Nature is a mother; her sympathies have always been feminist, and she has tempered the man to the shorn woman. John did not see her until the last period.
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