Perhaps that was why Sheila began to observe Lucy, because both of them were poignantly aware of Lucy’s otherness. She heard his voice screaming her name into the twilight as she fled, his cries trailing like banners, weaving through the breeze that had begun to gently stir the dew on the ground. Besides these there was a warm gooseberry-tart, and a cold pigeon pie—the latter capacious enough, even allowing for its due complement of steak, to contain the whole produce of a dovecot; a couple of lobsters and the best part of a salmon swimming in a sea of vinegar, and shaded by a forest of fennel. She said as much to him. Here was a little corner of the past—a tragic corner. “Lucy, you have to play for us after dinner, oh please. A robbery has been committed, and your master suspects this lad as an accessory to the offence. I have always managed to survive, haven’t I?” She was eager to stop talking about her parents. At last she glanced at a little clock in the corner of the room, and sprang to her feet. .
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