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Lucy was silent. But escape to where? She thought of the ships that sailed from the peninsulas to hot deserts where spices were traded. “We will do Paris like the tourists, and thank God here comes dinner. ‘Certainly you are imbecile. You must come and tell me all about it, although I am not sure whether we shall forgive you for not having written to any of us. You did not complain then that I personated you—no, nor when Sir John came to me in Paris, and for your sake I lied.
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