“No doubt about that,” Meddoes continued. “Go to the far corner,” he said, “and sing the last verse of Les Petites. 126 Lucy drank them as the first rays of watery sunlight seeped through the mullioned windows, then put their husks in the claw-footed bathtub. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed.
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