I am Lucilla Froxfield, you must know. Sheppard, meekly. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. We men are like children. “Oh, I am lonely,” she moaned. It is Anna again who stands between me and ruin. One day it was gone. And even if that,’ she added bitterly, ‘he must be also a person of a disposition extremely mad, that he can go against the family.
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