Lucy jammed her foot down onto Mark McCloskey’s forehead. He regarded that perennial miracle of pinning with wrathful eyes. ‘Now what?’ The guard jerked his head up the corridor. He told her something about music, the great world outside. But heavens, I must pack!” She sprang to her feet and disappeared in the room beyond, from which she emerged a few minutes later with flushed cheeks and dishevelled hair. “But, forgive me, you are tired.
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