Sheppard's weight had destroyed the equilibrium of the plank: it swerved, and slowly descended. "I have something further to tell you," pursued Winifred. Lucy? Come 177 on out. Now I am sorry to cross you in anything you have set your heart upon, but I regret to say—” “H’m,” he reflected, and crossed out the last four words. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. I’m leaving you, and you can’t stop me. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. Not I.
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