You truly are your mother’s, Lucia. The open books she knew by heart; aye, they had been ground into her, morning and night. Of all the entirely English women I know, you’re the only one with a French accent. Crack went the whip, and away floundered the heavy vehicle through the deep ruts of the ill-kept road, or rather lane, (for it was little better,) which, then, led across Southampton Fields.
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