She descended down the stairs of the house, sidestepping the refuse from bingedrinking teenagers that was strewn everywhere. "My son! my dear, dear son!" returned Mrs. ‘But what will happen to Lucia? Are we to kill her?’ ‘Of course not. He must know she’ll be at a convent. ’ ‘Indeed?’ said Gerald, surprised. She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. ” “Uh. Perhaps Ferringhall has pensioned her off. The dress was her mother's, and she was wearing it to save a little extra money. That's the way it goes. —Jonathan Wild: August 31st, 1724.
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