He laughed lightly. Lucy could feel blood welling underneath a bump half swelling and already half-healing on her scalp. The cry was echoed by twenty different voices. CHAPTER XIII. So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity. Everything, Miss Miniver said, was “working up,” everything was “coming on”—the Higher Thought, the Simple Life, Socialism, Humanitarianism, it was all the same really.
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