She winced when first she heard the preparation-room door open and Capes came down the laboratory; but when at last he reached her she was self-possessed. It was the blouse that gave Lucy away. “It’s still a marvel to me that we are to be forgiven,” she said, turning. Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called—appropriately enough in this instance,—a wrap-rascal. Always. An old man with a bent back who limped in, slow and stiff, leaning heavily on a cane.
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