At this point Lucy, in an effort perhaps—foolhardy, in Gerald’s opinion—to pour oil on troubled waters, rose swiftly to her feet and came towards the old man, her hand held out. From time to time the man below would shout, and the boy would let the threads go with the snap of a harpist, only to recover them instantly. “My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child.
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