” Lucy looked at the small shelf which was jammed with thick paperbacks by every major horror novelist of the twentieth century. This was to pass under the arch, along the narrow ledge of the starling, and, if possible, attain the eastern platform, where, protected by the bridge, he would suffer less from the excessive violence of the gale. He was a London man of business, spending a small legacy in Paris. A dozen shynesses and intellectual barriers were being outflanked or broken down in her mind. He was there concealed, waiting her return.
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