What a heat that news had wrought. Lucy ate without passion. And then suddenly—a relief. Hitherto it had been qualified by her conception of all life as a compromise, by her new effort to be unexacting of life. ‘The fact of it is,’ I said, ‘I’m the new playwright, Thomas More. I thought if you were living, and not captured, I should find you here,—and I was right. ‘Must be still downstairs. I wish I could get you to imitate Thames Darrell. I. The wine bubbled and seethed; and the exquisite bouquet of oranges permeated the room.
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