She began rubbing it with her pocket-handkerchief. "It is too late. She pointed suddenly at the portrait. She turned her head away sharply. She had a better voice than I, and the rest I suppose is only a trick. Very likely you will disapprove highly of what I have done—I wonder? You may, perhaps, think I have done it just in a fit of childish petulance because my father locked me in when I wanted to go to a ball of which he did not approve. “The one who used to live at Lyndmore. ’ She turned, her eyes narrowed.
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