She could not say who, not yet. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. “No I’m not, John. Lucy tried not to notice the starched smell, overpowering and powdery. She had removed her hat and utterly disarranged her already unruly black locks by running agitated fingers through them. ’ ‘Comment? You wish to murder me?’ ‘No, I wish to beat you,’ he retorted. “We don’t let to ladies,” they said.
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