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Feigning an air of casualness, Lucy asked the obvious. She was finally dead, going to Hell. "Stay!" said Jonathan, aiding his descent; "you had better take my lantern. ’ ‘Very true. You must be misinformed, Mr. Lucy tried not to notice the starched smell, overpowering and powdery. When she awoke from a pleasant dream an hour later, she was shocked to find herself restrained in a bed that was not hers and not the inn’s. This is no place for me. ’ He gave the gaping Pottiswick a shove, passing him on to his junior, who was waiting patiently by the kitchen door.
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