She licked his neck, which put him over the top. Possessed, at one time, of a share in the South Sea stock, he conceived himself worth twenty thousand pounds. Lucy could see the anger in her silhouette, the punishments and the grounding being formulated for the now dead daughter. She posed herself before her mirror and surveyed herself with gravely thoughtful, gravely critical, and yet admiring eyes. She could even think of what had happened. Because here was the haven for which she had been blindly groping: the positive abolition of all her father's rights in her—the right to drag her back. “When they tap the roof,” she said, in a voice of authority, “you are to come out. Her name is Lucia, she works in the Alberti Yarn Shop, across from Florestano the Butcher!” I happily rewarded her with a shiny new Florin and sent her off.
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