"Your mother is dead," interposed Wild, scowling. The slight smile that played upon Winifred's lips seemed to say that she was not quite so sure. Lucy tried not to notice the starched smell, overpowering and powdery. It had evidently seen better days before being relegated to the ministrations of a hackney coachman, one who evidently served the less affluent inhabitants of London. He was way out of her league and it was downright odd that he had obliged himself to talk to her, let alone walk her home. It was eleven o'clock.
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