“Well, I don’t know,” she said thoughtfully. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. ” Lucy knew exactly which blouse Sheila had found. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. ‘Precisely. He will let you live if it pleases him. Good riddance.
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