“What were you trying to do?” Lucy asked. The study seemed absolutely unaltered, there was still the same lamp with a little chip out of the shade, still the same gas fire, still the same bundle of blue and white papers, it seemed, with the same pink tape about them, at the elbow of the arm-chair, still the same father. Maybe it’s his loss. The folds of a thick muslin neckcloth in some degree protected him, but the gash was desperate. If only we are not divided.
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