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’ ‘A pox on the creature,’ swore Mrs Sindlesham, clenching and unclenching her stiff fingers. “What ought she to do?” “Suppose you—” “Yes, suppose I—” He felt that his advice was being asked. Lucy thought of a song that she had not been able to get out of her head since the Fifties. She held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers. ‘Tie a horse behind the carriage?’ he echoed incredulously.
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