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"Harry O'Dule," she gasped, as he swung the gate wide, "is it re'lly you?" "I hope your cold is better, Mr Greyquill," said she, making to proceed in her walk. She was twenty-three years of age, and it will be readily supposed had been sought in marriage by more than one ardent swain. But she had kept her heart whole: nothing in breeches and stockings and long cut-away coat and salutations adopted from the most approved Parisian styles had touched the passions of Lucy Acton. She was like Emma as painted by Miss Austen: she loved her home, she adored her father, she was perfectly well satisfied with her present state of being, she could not conceive anything in a man that was worth marrying for, and being well, she meant to leave well alone..
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"American, your honour." He started as though he was confronted by something totally different from the lady he expected to see. In truth Mr Lawrence had never seen Lucy Acton with her hair down. Always when they met her hair had been dressed in the prevailing mode, with a little fringing or shadowing of wisps on her fair brow and curls on the beautiful outlines of her shoulders. Whether her hair had become disengaged from its fastenings in the night, or whether the deck mattress had done half and she with her fingers had let fall the rest, matters not; she was before him, clothed all about her back and breast with her abundance of soft dark hair. The girl shuddered. "I know they hang for piracy!" she exclaimed. "It is what must happen if you convey him to England." Wilson laughed. "Not Cobin. He's quite satisfied with his little farm, I guess. No, Hinter didn't get much satisfaction from either of us.".
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