She was always breaking rules, whispering asides, intimating signals. I didn’t think—I don’t know what I thought. She cut a deep gash into her own arm with a steel screw, loosing drops of her own blood onto the floorboards. ‘Though we might have done, if a certain addlepated clothhead hadn’t let her get away. Whatever he wrote he was: he became this or that character, he suffered or prospered equally. “Oh, Lucy.
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