“What is the good of pretending?” she said. "So much the better," rejoined Sir Rowland. She reflected before answering. ’ Lucy was silent for a space, once again wearing that inscrutable expression. What is it you’re after? Money, I suppose. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. She was not afraid of violence, but she was afraid of something mean, some secondary kind of force.
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