Too much, perhaps. Chapter VI A QUESTION OF IDENTIFICATION The little man with the closely-cropped beard and hair looked at her keenly through his gold eye-glasses. “These are the sort of things that aren’t supposed to happen. Lucy tried not to notice the starched smell, overpowering and powdery. That dress is thirty years old, if a day. Grasping one of chairs about the little table, he drew it forward and sat astride it, in a fashion as insolent as it was unexpected. F. You know—I worship you.
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