Flesh and blood, vivid, alluring; she was no longer the symbol, therefore she had become, as in the twinkling of an eye, an utter stranger. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. “What’s wrong with having witchcraft books? Is she afraid that the Princeton Hill villagers will burn you at stake?” Lucy asked sarcastically.
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