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Her thought spoke aloud. I wasn’t. Lucy had passed the house once on the sidewalk, on a rare day when he was shoveling snow. He wiped the sweat from his chin and forehead. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. The man Hill has persecuted me for months—ever since I have been in England. “No.
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