For a moment she too had started and faltered in her exit from the room. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. Lucy knocked again. They are not bad girls, but the average tourist has that misconception of them. Die, indeed! We’re going to do work; we’re going to unfold about each other; we’re going to have children. "They'll escape. “Poor Lucy!” Cathy exclaimed as she rushed in the door, umbrella sheathed. I'm an old hand at such things.
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