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. “So it’s like you’re a dead end?” He asked innocently. Their future would be glorious; he saw it in their eyes; he saw it in the beauty of their young heads. A physiognomist, indeed, would have likened him to that crafty animal, and it must be owned the general formation of his features favoured such a comparison.
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