Part 3 She dismissed the first hotels she passed, she scarcely knew why, mainly perhaps from the mere dread of entering them, and crossed Waterloo Bridge at a leisurely pace. “I have hurt my father,” she said; “I have hurt my aunt. And experience was slow in coming. He took her hand in his, raising it closer, and gently touched the maltreated skin. “Who the hell are you, Lucy?” “Promise me you will never tell anyone. I wish to rise in the world, mademoiselle, and you are going to help me.
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