Lucy thought of a song that she had not been able to get out of her head since the Fifties. For a moment none of them stirred; then slowly Enschede turned away. Neither would she allow herself to feel guilty nor would she allow him to find a way into the house. There was a gallows erected, and a great mob round it—thousands of people, and all with white faces like corpses. Had he been listening inside? ‘What is amiss?’ ‘That Frenchie, sir. . ’ She threw a melting look at Roding.
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