M. Gerald at once lowered his voice to that intimate level again, and leaned towards her. “Call me Annabel. Listen to your mother's prayers, and do not let her die brokenhearted. "I should think so," responded the lethargic turnkey, with a yawn. The lamp was spreading soot over everything and the reek of kerosene was stronger than usual. Lucy could see her striding down a Parisian catwalk quite easily. But on Sunday he had been obliged to attend to certain matters for the nuns. “I wonder if they will seem altered,” she remarked for the third time.
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