I used to go by the name Lucy Iovelli, which was my natural father’s surname. That is not reasonable. On the present occasion, he appeared to have bestowed more than ordinary attention on his toilette. He never cries nor frets, as children generally do, but lies at my bosom, or on my knee, as quiet and as gentle as you see him now. This was a much more serious task than he anticipated. He was sipping a glass of cold gin and water, and smoking a short black pipe. Gosse sneered.
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