She slipped it calmly into her pocket. She succumbed to cancer of the breast at age forty-three, it was slow and wasting. Then blackness. Anna glanced into her sister’s face, and rose to her feet. “What, you don’t think that you can afford it? Lucy, with your musical talent, you’ll get a full ride. —Sorry to quit your lord—worships, I mean,—I don't know what I mean," she added, a little confused, and dropping a profound curtsey to the disguised noblemen, each of whom replied by a bow, worthy, in her opinion, of a prince of the blood at the least,—"but I've a few necessary orders to give below.
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