’ The girl held out her hands. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. But there was, it insisted, no mobility in his face, no movement, nothing about him that warmed. ‘Because I’m a female,’ declared Lucilla unanswerably. Well, this was the side of the world where things like that happened. But at length, there was a click, and with a swish, the panel of painted books swung outward from the wall.
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