“What have you done?” 212 “It is your own fault, Lucia. 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. In the struggle the pistol went off, but without damage to either party. The stairs were outside but they had been covered with a thin plastic roof. ‘I thought—I thought I saw my—my husband.
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