Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. Lucy followed. But not today. Rather would I have gone with Leonardo—and he wished me to do so. ‘Oh, Jacques, I cannot forgive myself!’ ‘Never you fret, miss,’ he uttered at once in a faint voice. “Excellent fellow!” he answered a little irrelevantly.
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