‘How do you do, my lord? I am Lucilla Froxfield. Maggot,
who promptly interposed her cudgel. Maggot. There was no
light in the room; but, notwithstanding this, the young man did not fail to detect
the buxom figure of Mrs. ‘It was your son who left the place empty then?’ he asked. It consisted of a full-dress coat of
brown flowered velvet, laced with silver; a waistcoat of white satin, likewise
richly embroidered; shoes with red heels, and large diamond buckles; pearlcoloured silk stockings with gold clocks; a muslin cravat, or steen-kirk, as it was
termed, edged with the fine point lace; ruffles of the same material, and so ample
as almost to hide the tips of his fingers; and a silver-hilted sword. She got into rows through meddling with their
shoes and tennis-rackets, and had moments of carefully concealed admiration
when she was privileged to see them just before her bedtime, rather radiantly
dressed in white or pink or amber and prepared to go out with her mother. I believe I am getting impudent. “You poor child!” he said; “don’t
you see the infinite folly of these proceedings? Think! Think of the love and
affection you abandon! Think of your aunt, a second mother to you. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’
It was a portrait.
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This video was uploaded to damaulifm.org on 26-06-2024 04:13:29