Without turning or looking in his direction she leaned forwards, her head supported upon her fingers, her elbows upon her knees. "Sir Rowland is your uncle—he will be your guardian—he will protect you. "Woman, your wits are fled!" And so it seemed; for all the answer she could make was to murmur distractedly, "I can't find the key. Lucy cringed, her eyes widening. What else could one say? I left him to suppose—a registry perhaps.
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