The curtain tinkled as her head brushed it, but he neither saw nor heard. She saw Lucy darkening her doorstep and stood from the recliner. It hung from the centre of a stout pole, each end of which rested upon the calloused shoulder of a coolie; an ordinary Occidental chair with a foot-rest. He was a good foster dad that had never so much as leered at her, not even once. As he was about to descend his chains slightly rattled. “What were you doing?” Her voice was a little hysterical. ‘Yes, I thought you’d say that.
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