She slid the dress off, naked underneath. Her eyes flashed. Ruth could tell the doctor; she could bare many of her innermost thoughts to that kindly man; but there was an inexplicable reserve before this young man whom she still endued with the melancholy charm of Sydney Carton. Lady Trafford, supposed to be childless, broken in health and spirits, frail both in mind and body, is not likely to make another marriage. “It is possible, mademoiselle,” he said, “that this affair is not yet ended. I've been thinking about it ever since morning. She enjoyed preparing the evening meals, the smells of potatoes roasting in the oven, the stink of onions in the pan, the crackle of chicken frying. Will you read to me? I am tired; and the sound of your voice makes me drowsy. Miss Mary being his only child ’an all, he were in a right pelter.
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