Michelle was laid onto the back seat, her head cradled in Lucy’s lap. ‘Don’t be silly. Sensing his discomfort, she stood up and brushed lint off of the hem of her gray miniskirt. Some automaton within her produced in a quite unfamiliar voice the remark, “They’re playing football. Like carpenter, like chips. ” The lady in black satin appeared undecided. Gin is the poor man's friend,—his sole set-off against the rich man's luxury. Love and lavender, he thought, perhaps wistfully.
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