Lucy jammed her foot down onto Mark McCloskey’s forehead. She propped a pillow against his padded headboard and sat herself into a stiff upright position, legs expertly crossed. “No,” said her brother, conclusively, “it’s not for a parent to go on persuading a child. The fibre of his soul had to be tested, queerly, to make him worthy of you. There were cakes and sandwiches—for Ennison a sort of Elysian feast, long to be remembered.
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