\" Lucy replied, truly amazed. “I don’t understand. Darting quickly to the chest that contained the priest’s vestments, she leapt onto it and reached her arm down to scrabble behind it on the floor. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. That is not reasonable. Instinct had forced her to create something out of rags to satisfy a mysterious craving. "Stir a foot, at your peril.
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