Lucy was filled with happiness, it was her third Christmas at the Becks. She was a trained being—trained by an implacable mother to one end. The castle stood on the main island which connected to the mainland by a foreboding stone and wooden bridge. At least for one moment, it was. Ann Veronica felt suddenly an effect of tremendous pathos; she would have given anything to have been able to frame and make some appeal, some utterance that should bridge this bottomless chasm that had opened between her and her father, and she could find nothing whatever to say that was in the least sincere and appealing.
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