He seemed too noisy. He pulled down a chair to her left. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. “We can,” he said, “and we will. As they careened into a parking space, Lucy clung to the upholstery so as not to be thrown against the front seats. For every Eden, there will be a serpent; for every sheepfold, there will be a wolf. With some difficulty he contrived to raise her to the window, and with still greater difficulty to squeeze her through it—her bulk being much greater than his own.
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