CHAPTER VI. 8 or 1. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. . Lucy savored the normalcy of the scene. ‘But a spy I am not. She held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers. I'm glad he's come to see me.
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