“I cannot keep silence any longer. The dress came to her only too manifestly unwashed from its former wearer; even the under-linen they gave her seemed unclean. For ten years I've been trying to go home, but my conscience will not permit me, I hate the Orient. I saw her face and it was the face that had been hidden from me in dreams, a face very much like yours, Lucia. But he was a thief, a fugitive from justice. Of late, however, his plotting had assumed a more dark and dangerous complexion.
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