Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. He knew it was unnerving, he did it to everyone, even his own kin. But there was, it insisted, no mobility in his face, no movement, nothing about him that warmed. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. ’ They moved to the door, while the lady shrugged, and then seated herself, glancing from the window into the street below, and then turning again to watch them in their huddle at the other side of the library. Wood then led the way up a rather high and, according to modern notions, incommodious flight of steps, and introduced his guest to a neat parlour, the windows of which were darkened by pots of flowers and creepers. “Perhaps,” he queried, “you wish to avoid being seen about with any one—er— connected with the profession, under present circumstances. It had been his fevered imagination that had endued the garment with some extraordinary value. ’ He gave the gaping Pottiswick a shove, passing him on to his junior, who was waiting patiently by the kitchen door. The girl regarded him with the face of a Sphinx. As Austin rose to execute his principal's commands, and usher the women to the gate, Mrs. . That’s the fact about them.
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