The slim knife was wrested from her grasp, and she was flung backwards, towards the bookcases. 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. He would discuss something she had been reading, and he would give her some unexpected angle, setting a fictional character before her with astonishing clearness. It is so that I may marry an Englishman.
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