‘There was a priest, the father confessor, you understand. Of all crafts,—and it was the only craft his poor father, who, to do him justice, was one of the best workmen that ever handled a saw or drove a nail, could never understand,—of all crafts, I say, to be an honest man is the master-craft. Her hair touched water, becoming like the seaweed in its velvet slickness. Lucy spoke once they had turned the corner. Anyhow he confessed that he was a fraud.
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