He dodged the boot this time, and smashed his left upon the Wastrel's lips, leaving them bloody pulp. Through her door curtain she could see the light from the study lamp. “But why, Lucy? Who is it 145 that you are trying to hide from? John?” Lucy closed her eyes in earnest. ‘But do you not see that he will come again? I think it is better if you, both of you, go and leave me here to find—’ She broke off, looking away. In the discussion there was the oddest mixture of things that were personal and petty with an idealist devotion that was fine beyond dispute. And this great mellow place, this London, now was hers, to struggle with, to go where she pleased in, to overcome and live in.
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