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don’t have time. She would become defensive—what she did would be the thing that mattered. . “But why, Lucy? Who is it 145 that you are trying to hide from? John?” Lucy closed her eyes in earnest. The manager had sketched the girl's character, or rather had interpreted it, from the incidents which had happened since dinner. Hidden menace; a prescience of something dreadful about to happen. “You see, father,” she said, “it isn’t only this affair of the dance.
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