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The light would betray us. ‘Is he meeting you here then, my dear?’ ‘He had better,’ said Lucilla. She softened her tone and scrambled for the right words. “Go to the far corner,” he said, “and sing the last verse of Les Petites. It wasn’t anything splendid, you know. ‘We was of an age, you see, miss. I need you every day. She had been built for canvas and oil-lamps, and this new thingumajig that kept her nose snoring at eight knots when normally she was able to boil along at ten, and these unblinking things they called lamps (that neither smoked nor smelled), irked and threatened to ruin her temper. He put an arm around her. She knew, or guessed his mission too, for more than once their eyes met, and she laughed mockingly at him. “Of course,” he ventured, “I could try for more at the ‘Alhambra. “Annabel,” she said slowly, “if I fight this thing out myself, can I trust you that it will not be a vain sacrifice? After what you have said it is useless for us to play with words. “I wonder what he takes me for?” When presently she got down from the stile a certain note of internal conflict, a touch of doubt, had gone from her warm-tinted face.
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