It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. “Lucy, I have to talk to you. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. I made it a point to bring beachcombers to the house to fill her with horror of mankind.
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