Lucy was filled with happiness, it was her third Christmas at the Becks. She came to her one day and pulled on her apron. “Listen! There was a Meysey Hill in Paris, an American railway millionaire. The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls’ heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. ‘Was you following, too, miss?’ ‘Certainly I was following.
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