Because here was the haven for which she had been blindly groping: the positive abolition of all her father's rights in her—the right to drag her back. These little squares of coloured paper interested her mightily—hotel labels. She then opened Lucy’s meager closet and plucked out a pair of heeled boots usually reserved for weddings and funerals. ‘Could she have been a spy, after all?’ ‘Oh, she’s not a spy,’ Gerald answered, almost absently. “How has the world taken it?” he asked.
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