She was greatly exercised by the problem of confiding in the Widgetts; they were dears, and she talked away two evenings with Constance without broaching the topic; she made some vague intimations in letters to Miss Miniver that Miss Miniver failed to mark. Still —there you are!” He paused. He was interesting and inconclusive, and the original papers to which he referred her discursive were at best only suggestive. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. A familiar figure was making his way towards them. Three times he uttered a phrase: "A djinn in a blue-serge coat!" And each time he would follow it with a chuckle—the chuckle of a soul in damnation. The asylum was approached by a broad gravel walk, leading through a garden edged on either side by a stone balustrade, and shaded by tufted trees. “You’ll be there, right?” She asked, hearing his breathing audibly jump. "You will not hesitate to break it, if it suits your purpose. ” He held out his hand obediently. Lucy's grin faded. A beachcomber in embryo, and she had lent a hand through habit as much as through pity.
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