“Poor Lucy!” Cathy exclaimed as she rushed in the door, umbrella sheathed. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. Its smooth surface soothed her nerves. ‘Who me, sir? Lor’ no, sir. “Look at our clothes,” she exclaimed, “and besides, the funny little proprietor has gone down himself to help it along. Well, I've had to be.
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