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It was cheating, pitiful cheating. A vein of conviction mingled with his burlesque. I was certain of it. “I think,” she said, “that I would rather not have anything to say about that man. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. Wood required little pressing. ” Lucy said, frowning. Then she looked up at Brendon.
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