To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven. This is part of a dream— some evil fancy. But, finding the cellar-door open, concluded he had got out that way. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. Feigning an air of casualness, Lucy asked the obvious. .
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