She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. It was an uproarious affair, for Rollo now knew that he had been grieviously betrayed: they were trying to kill him in a new way. Lucy was surprised to hear that any party could happen on a week night, but the parents of the house in question were the rich absentee type. ‘You damned little fool! How dared you steal my sword?’ Her eyes flew open. Sensitive, aren’t they?” She chuckled.
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