Lucy stood in front of the piano. Its walled heaved with black mildew and sea-salt. She read on and on, now thrilled by the swiftly moving drama, now enraptured by the tender passages of love. But if I were dying of thirst, in a desert, I would not accept a cup of water at her hands. My heart cannot take it. But when she saw the car, her body filled with dread, for it gave her a bad feeling. ‘You will not guess again?’ ‘No, no, I am quite out of ideas.
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