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She did not realize what a perfect picture she presented, with her golden hair wind-strewn, her red lips parted, and the old joy singing in her heart and kindling a light in her eyes. But the boy who met her at the curve in the road realized it, and his face grew wistful as he asked: "Is he all right, Erie?", 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., "With the greatest pleasure. What should it be?" As Miss Acton loved "Sally in our Alley," he would be happy to sing it..