We have only those phantoms called memories, which are the husks of dreams. She blew on the hand cannon and grabbed her bag of gunpowder. She would ignore him. Lucy snatched it up and put it in her pack. Who could say that the girl's father had not once been a fashionable clergyman in the States and that drink had got him and forced him down, step by step, until—to use the child's odd expression—he had come upon the beach? She was cynical, this spinster. Montague Hill.
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