Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. ‘How do you do, my lord? I am Lucilla Froxfield. "Oh, you're here, are you?" said the ruffian, with an exulting laugh: "I've been looking for you everywhere. His shirt also was unbuttoned, and disclosed a neck like that of an ox, and a chest which might have served as a model for a Hercules. But perhaps he was right not to tell you the truth. There are so many things I want to tell you, and they stand on such different levels, that the effect is necessarily confusing and discordant, and I find myself doubting if I am really giving you the thread of emotion that should run through all this letter.
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