Lucy inhaled deeply. His frame was wasted, and slightly bent; his eyes were hollow, his complexion haggard, and his beard, which had remained unshorn during his hasty journey, was perfectly white. At this point Lucy, in an effort perhaps—foolhardy, in Gerald’s opinion—to pour oil on troubled waters, rose swiftly to her feet and came towards the old man, her hand held out. She slipped down the perfunctory flight of stairs, short because of the home’s split-level style. But tell her this, too. I don't know anything about you. What she did not know, and what she was never to know, was that the divine fire was hers. The great door of the Stone Hall was thrown open, and the sheriffs, preceded by the javelin-men, entered the room.
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