Soon they came to treat Lucy almost as mother, pulling hard at her brown curls and laughing delightedly as they sprang back into their spiral shape. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. She could feel his breath on her skin, every hair on her arms and neck raised in response. The house will be well rid of him, for a more idle, good-for-nothing reprobate never crossed its threshold. I have only just left Wych Street. This child at once alarmed and thrilled them. I am the richest man in England. It took my breath away.
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