It is in vain to struggle against the arm of fate. “It really seems as if we shall have to put down marigolds altogether next year,” Aunt Molly repeated three times, “and do away with marguerites. Lucy had just began to invoke a solace where John was concerned, doing her best to shelve him as not so special after all. Here is one verse. Besides, it did not fit her well, which was why the loose wimple had slipped. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. .
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