Teddy overtook her, a little out of breath, his innocent face flushed, his straw-colored hair disordered. Then he stood up and hailed a fiacre. “Time for my Patience,” she said. 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. Its dreariness, like the filthiness of the police cell, was a discovery for her. “That’s not.
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