Lucy sat paralyzed, as still as Tiger Lily on the death raft. Her eyes glistened in the darkness—for light was only admitted through a small grated window—like flames, and, as she fixed them on him, their glances seemed to penetrate his very soul. “You really couldn’t ride in it,” he said, deprecatingly. "Something is sure to arise in the course of the investigation, of which I can take advantage. There must be something, one feels, in ideas that achieve persistently a successful resurrection.
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