Little by little, she stopped hating him. ‘Pray you, mademoiselle, can you not—’ ‘No use trying to enlist Lucilla’s aid,’ snapped Roding. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. “Good luck! Good luck!” She waved from the window until the bend hid him. The young man was mollified by her sympathy, and flattered by the obvious attempts of several of the other guests to draw him into conversation. "Close the door!" commanded Trenchard, impatiently.
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