Lucy came out of her room, and at the same moment issued forth from
hers Mrs. Bazalgette in a fine new dress. It was that black
_glace;_ silk, divested of gloom by cheerful accessories, in
which she had threatened to mourn eternally Lucy's watery fate. Fire
flashed from the young lady's eyes at the sight of it. She went down
to her uncle, muttering between her ivory teeth: "All the same--all
the same;" and her heart flowed. The next minute, at sight of Mr.
Bazalgette it ebbed. She came into his room, saying: "Oh, Uncle
Bazalgette, it is not to thank you--that I can never do worthily; it
is to ask another favor. Do, pray, let me spend this evening with you;
let me be where you are. I will be as still as a mouse. See, I have
brought some work; or, if you _would_ but let me help you.
Indeed, uncle, I am not a fool. I am very quick to learn at the
bidding of those I love. Let me write your letters for you, or fold
them up, or direct them, or something--do, pray!"
"Oh, the caprices of young ladies! Well, can you write large and
plain? Not you."
"I can _imitate_ anything or anybody."
"Imitate this hand then. I'll walk and dictate, you sit and write."
"Oh, how nice!"
"Delicious! The first is to--Hetherington. Now, Lucy, this is a
dishonest, ungrateful old rogue, who has made thousands by me, and now
wants to let me into a mine, with nothing in it but water. It would
suck up twenty thousand pounds as easily as that blotting-paper will
suck up our signature.
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