The moment I entered the room, and found you a prisoner in the hands of Jonathan Wild, I guessed how matters stood, and acted accordingly. “But why, Lucy? Who is it 145 that you are trying to hide from? John?” Lucy closed her eyes in earnest. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. “Can you spare me a moment?” he asked. The great ordeal—that which she had most dreaded—had proved to be no ordeal at all.
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