235 “No, I think she’s out sick with a throat infection. Balanced on his nose were enormous tortoise-shell spectacles. Instinctively she had fallen into the posture of the poster, her hands behind her, her head bent slightly forward, her chin uplifted, her eyes bright with the drollery of the song. Lost me place, that’s all. “Thank you. Are you all here?” “Five boxes full,” she answered. That was the wonder of these stories; one lived in them. Lucy was silent.
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