The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. It was empty. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. “Lucy, do you forgive me?” She looked at him in earnest. Pitt, the governor, a tall pompous personage, who, in his turn, ushered in four other individuals. Fortescue’s steps, and encountered him with an air of artless surprise.
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