‘Well, what was I to think, miss? Martha never wrote nothing about you, and I did ask. A man might be without relatives, but certainly he would not be without friends, that is to say, without letters. You know that. He came in with his hands in his trousers pockets and a general air of depression in his bearing. Nevertheless, she was still fighting. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. The afternoon had passed now into twilight.
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