A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek. One never knew when it would be necessary to resume her disguise. She flailed against the doctor’s grip but after what seemed an eternity of kicking and flailing, amazingly, he had not seemed weakened in the slightest by her resistance. What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel. Lucy knocked again. “Sit down,” he said, and perused—“perused” is the word for it—for some moments.
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