"We shall meet again ere long, my son," cried Mrs. Shari proceeded to paint, brush, dust, slather, and blot Lucy’s face with makeup. “Look at our affair,” he went on, looking up at her. It was an awful moment—so awful, that every other feeling except deep interest in the scene seemed suspended. “Are you going on again this winter with that scientific work of yours? It’s an instance of heredity, I suppose. “I am bored,” she said abruptly.
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