Her motherly features creased into anxious wrinkles. At sight of his wan features, she forgot the urgency of her need for a moment, and fell to her knees at his bedside, placing her hands on his slack ones where they lay on the soiled coverlet. I don’t think women need to trouble about political questions. “I thought you wanted to have a talk to me,” she said. Once before—but that had been different. At this point Lucy, in an effort perhaps—foolhardy, in Gerald’s opinion—to pour oil on troubled waters, rose swiftly to her feet and came towards the old man, her hand held out. He then stamped upon the hand on the lower bannister, until that also relaxed its gripe.
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