“But why, Lucy? Who is it 145 that you are trying to hide from? John?” Lucy closed her eyes in earnest. ‘Parbleu, but what a person you make me! One who spies. She had suddenly become as the jewels of the Madonna, as the idol's eye, infinitely beyond his reach, sacred. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination.
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