This young man did not drink because he sought the false happiness that lured men to the bottle. The sun was rising, illuminating the trees in black as if they were drawn in ink. Lucy sprinted to one side to avoid the crash and grabbed at Rhea’s solitary patch of yellow hair, which ripped out loosely in one decayed piece like strands of rotten corn silk. I suppose that’s the gist of the whole thing. Oh, I know. Then, quite insensibly, her queenliness had declined.
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