Lucy was filled with happiness, it was her third Christmas at the Becks. Amid a litter of nails without heads, screws without worms, and locks without wards, lay a glue-pot and an oilstone, two articles which their owner was wont to term "his right hand and his left. Wood, who were, furthermore, engaged in a little conjugal tête-à-tête of their own. What was it she had expected? Surely her moods were getting a little out of hand.
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