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. Lucy blushed from toes to forehead, feeling her pace accelerate. "Why came she here?" "She could not resist the hand of fate which drew her hither," replied Sir Cecil, mournfully. “And me. Like a thorough-bred racer, he would sustain twice as much fatigue as a person of heavier mould. “I saw—they knocked off your fetters yesterday.
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