She found a clean sweatshirt and soft pajama pants, glad to trade the wet for the dry. The more her thoughts dwelt upon the subject, the more convinced she was that she could not go to any one for help; she would have to solve the riddle by her own efforts, by some future experience. All that confidence, born of irony, disappeared; and fear laid hold of him. “How did you hear that?” Lucy’s brows knitted. The theme was a masquerade. All the sombre visions she had been pressing back, fighting out of her thoughts, swarmed over the barrier and crushed her.
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