That was the wonder of these stories; one lived in them. Lucy sat in back of Jane Lenihan, who never spoke to her. She threw her arms around Rollo's neck and laid her cheek upon the flea-bitten head. The emerald wings, slashed with scarlet and yellow, wheeling and swooping about her head, there among the wild plantain. ToC Mrs. “No, Lucy, because Satan does not exist.
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