Left alone, Jonathan lighted a lamp, and, opening the trap-door, descended the secret stairs. Soon they came to treat Lucy almost as mother, pulling hard at her brown curls and laughing delightedly as they sprang back into their spiral shape. Like carpenter, like chips. “I suppose most people’s letters are queer. ” “He was probably right,” she declared. And here he was, but a hundred yards away, this wastrel who trailed his genius through the mud.
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