Lucy felt her eyes misting up, turning traitor. He had died before they married, and when her brother became a widower she had come to his assistance and taken over much of the care of his youngest daughter. Perhaps it was just as well there was no inherited memory. Suddenly she understood. "Every inch of it," replied the woollen-draper. “Of course I will,” he answered. Winds returned, the gardens withered, and roses would not bloom.
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