" "A novelist?" cried Ruth, thrilling. " "You daren't use it. She moved towards it slowly and picked it up, holding it out in front of her whilst the familiar perfume seemed to assert itself with damning insistence. His foot tapped impatiently, and he took up the papers. Lucy did not want to have to kill the mother, as she hated more than anything to kill women, no matter what their sins. We both understood that. She made herself serenely unaware of his existence, though it may be it was his presence that sent her by the field detour instead of by the direct path up the Avenue.
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