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There could not, he decided, possibly be two girls so much alike. Lucy's grin faded. We’ll have some buttered toast. “But you yourself,” she exclaimed, glancing into his face, “you too look tired. “Why—it’s—it’s you!” Amazement seemed to dry up the torrents of his speech. "Where am I?" she cried, passing her hand across her brow. ” “Except,” said Constance, surveying her work with her head on one side, “to keep the matches from the litter. "Is it by lettin' you go, my darlin', that I'm to airn it?" inquired Terence. “The Widgetts,” she said. .
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