That’s where you go wrong. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. Pilgrim's Progress, The Life of Martin Luther and Alice in Wonderland (the only fairy-story she had been permitted to read) were the sum total of her library. It was approached from the street by a flight of broad stone steps, leading to a ponderous door, plated with iron, and secured on the inner side by huge bolts, and a lock, with wards of a prodigious size. Capes looked at one and not over one, spoke to one, treated one as a visible concrete fact. The individual twist was always there, even in the cleverest forgeries. She dismissed the whole subject with a little shrug of the shoulders. But, taking the chisel from Blueskin, Jack quickly forced back the bolt. But though the breach was large enough to admit him below, he could not squeeze his bulky person through the aperture into the Red Room. Lucy stood in front of the piano.
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