“Do you know him?” Lucy replied, “No, I haven’t met him. Were it not for your voice, I don't think I should know you. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. After all, why need one look down. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town.
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