They were talking of “Alcide,” as they often did in those days. "Not proud in the least, I declare. 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. She gazed with a quiet detachment toward the window and the Oxford Street traffic, and in her heart she was busy kicking this man to death. Later on I could scarcely have forgiven you.
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