Lucy thought of a song that she had not been able to get out of her head since the Fifties. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. Jack hastily retreated, and taking the first means of concealment that occurred to him, descended the cellar steps. That register would be easy to get at; comforting thought. It is quite light yet, and I want to have one more look at that angry red sun.
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