But it is my fault. At this point Lucy, in an effort perhaps—foolhardy, in Gerald’s opinion—to pour oil on troubled waters, rose swiftly to her feet and came towards the old man, her hand held out. The chair had extension arms over which a man might comfortably dangle his legs. His complexion was pale; and there was something sinister in the expression of his large black eyes. But we're neglecting the punch all this time.
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