“He must never know,” she would whisper to herself, “he must never know. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. Lucy cringed, her eyes widening. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. . And through all these defences and into Old Palace Yard, into the very vitals of the defenders’ position, lumbered the unsuspected vans.
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