“Lucy, do you forgive me?” She looked at him in earnest. Lucy found solace in the lack of sunshine, but the November cold was over the top, even for Illinois. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. He never cries nor frets, as children generally do, but lies at my bosom, or on my knee, as quiet and as gentle as you see him now.
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