Lucy looked about confusedly. It was all highly intriguing. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. Their talk drifted to the beauty of music, and they took that up again at tea-time. People running, screaming, hiding. “Will you help me?” he asked.
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