Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. The fire still burned brightly. As they careened into a parking space, Lucy clung to the upholstery so as not to be thrown against the front seats. " "I will—I will," replied Wood hastily. But such is the perversity of the human that frequently thereafter he purposely crooked the part in his hair, to give her the excuse to fetch the comb. She would just have to show up and hope for the best. She wouldn't be able to pass by anywhere without folks turning their heads. I guess we could go for a ride.
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