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"There is a man in this room who seeks my life. ‘For God’s sake, let go my hand,’ he begged. You are a girl with very little. Give me your hand. He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face. I do not admit the truth of a word which you have said. He hated himself a little for it. Yet her hands dropped, and she sighed deeply. White men and natives dealt conveniently at Copeley's. Lucy loved orchestras, the bittersweet tinge of rosin dust that hung in the air, the way that the sun shone through filthy windows illuminating the marimbas with a storybook light. He destroyed her clumsily made dolls whenever he found them. But with returning breath came returning vociferations; and the carpenter, with a faint hope of lessening the clamour by change of scene, took up his lantern, opened the door, and walked out. “When did you get home last night, Lucy?” Cathy interrogated through a yawn. Then he did give way a bit.
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