It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. It was a moment of breathless interest to all engaged in the attempt. She perceived she had never really thought of any one but herself in all her acts and plans. In short, every contrivance that ingenuity could devise was resorted to by this horde of reprobates to secure themselves from danger or molestation. The stench was cheese-like and unbearable and Lucy dry-heaved.
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