Tell Lucy about the time you were nine years old and blew up the house, John. Notwithstanding her emaciation, her features still retained something of a pleasing expression, and might have been termed beautiful, had it not been for that repulsive freshness of lip denoting the habitual dram-drinker; a freshness in her case rendered the more shocking from the almost livid hue of the rest of her complexion. “I’m damned if I’ll believe it,” he muttered to himself savagely.
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