He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. From head to foot he was attired in the fashionable garb of the young man of the moment. Beyond was a chaise longue, covered with cushions and shawls laid anyhow across it, together with a discarded tapestry in the making, and a scattering of woollen threads about it. Lucy sat paralyzed, as still as Tiger Lily on the death raft. She climbed back into the window an hour before sunrise.
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