“That’s suicidal bullshit, Lucy. He had informed her that to leave him would be a choice to live a life of meager subsistence. Wasn't the river beautiful under the moonlight?" "We did not leave our cabins. "I declare I'm all in a cold sweat. At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. Lucy went hunting on a Thursday night. I don’t know. She did not want to seem to shrink from conversation, but all sorts of odd questions were running through her mind. “I should like to understand you,” he said.
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