Her back had stiffened, and her hazel eyes looked steadfastly ahead. Dim possibilities that she would not seem to look at even to herself gesticulated in the twilight background of her mind. Amongst others, the watchman whose box was placed against the churchyard wall, near the entrance to Shoe-lane, rushed out and sprung his rattle, which was immediately answered by another rattle from Holborn-bars. She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook. Lucy had caught it when it was a millimeter away from hitting her teeth. ‘And you know, my dear, I do think you must make up your mind to beard this wretched grandfather of yours.
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