Don’t, don’t say anything now, not anything. It’s one of our conventional superstitions. Lucy jammed her foot down onto Mark McCloskey’s forehead. His foot tapped impatiently, and he took up the papers. All the linen was new and stamped with the mark of Whiteaway, Laidlaw & Co. In the genuinely dissipated face there was always a suggestion of slyness in ambush, peeping out of the wrinkles around the eyes and the lips.
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