On the floor was a handkerchief, a little morsel of lace. "You're only twenty—not legally of age. "Do you hear me?" cried the lady, with increasing vehemence. Blueskin will take care of the horses, and I'll go with you. 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. Majorities, right or wrong, dare not revolt.
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