I often wonder why the young always take us ancients for nambypamby creatures. “Am I hurting you?” She asked. At this point Lucy, in an effort perhaps—foolhardy, in Gerald’s opinion—to pour oil on troubled waters, rose swiftly to her feet and came towards the old man, her hand held out. ‘She is constantly thinking of you,’ I said. Occasionally the mere fact of lying in bed became unendurable, and she rolled out and marched about her room and whispered abuse of herself—usually until she hit against some article of furniture. "He must be somewhere hereabouts," cried one of the horsemen, dismounting. “How unkind!” she exclaimed.
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