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The great untrodden world was before her still, into which no one can pass alone. Lucy aimed the firearm at Rhea’s chest. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. She was to be handed over with her dowry of three thousand Florins, plus her pet bird, six chickens, her mother’s fine linens, a small book of poetry. She sat, crouched together, by the corner of the hearthrug under the bookcase that supported the pig’s skull, and looked into the fire and up at Ann Veronica’s face, and let herself go. Not a star could be discerned, but, in their stead, streaks of lurid radiance, whence proceeding it was impossible to determine, shot ever and anon athwart the dusky vault, and added to the ominous and threatening appearance of the night. Spurlock bent his head to the rail. There was nothing on her face to hint of the misery that brimmed her heart this morning. She had not chosen her life, but she was foggy on whether or not it was right to deny others the right to join her in her suffering.
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