"Shall I take the babby home with me!" persisted Wood, in a tone between jest and earnest. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. By this time, the door was unlocked, and drawing his sword, Quilt entered the cell. “I’m sorry Lucy! I’m sorry to Mike too! You were right, we’re a mismatch! I just don’t want to be lonely!” Lucy hugged Michelle.
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