“Well，” said Lucy to herself， “I did think better of her han that. And I did all sorts of things for her last term， nd I stuck to her when not many other girls would. And he knows it too. And to Anne Featherstone of all people！ I onder are all my friends the same？ There are lots of other ictures. No. I won‘t look at any more. I won’t， I won‘t” and with a great effort she turned over the page， but notefore a large， angry tear had splashed on it.
On the next page she came to a spell “for the refreshment f the spirit”. The pictures were fewer here but ver y eautiful. And what Lucy found herself reading was more ke a story than a spell. It went on for three pages and efore she had read to the bottom of the page she had orgotten that she was reading at all. She was living in the ory as if it were real， and all the pictures were real too. hen she had got to the third page and come to the end， he said， “That is the loveliest story I’ve ever read or ever hall read in my whole life. Oh， I wish I could have gone oneading it for ten years. At least I‘ll read it over again.”
But here part of the magic of the came into play. ou couldn’t turn back. The right.hand pages， the ones head， could be turned； the left.hand pages could not.
