Come into the parlour, Winifred, and dry your eyes directly, or I'll send you to bed. Luckily I’m not. The whole place had come to life, the magic seeped out of the walls. Instinctively she had fallen into the posture of the poster, her hands behind her, her head bent slightly forward, her chin uplifted, her eyes bright with the drollery of the song. But in the appendix of the dictionary she had discovered magic names—Hugo, Dumas, Thackeray, Hawthorne, Lytton.
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