. ’ ‘But what of justice?’ asked Lucilla, evidently dazed. You’d make a good Devil. But you must not imagine me wrapped in melancholy. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. “Just come to that seat now you are here, Miss Stanley, and look down the other path; there’s a vista of just the common sort.
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