I might add that in any case I should not touch Sir John’s. 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 know now that I was mistaken. She enjoyed preparing the evening meals, the smells of potatoes roasting in the oven, the stink of onions in the pan, the crackle of chicken frying. ‘I cannot possibly shoot a lady, you know.
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