“Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. “Sorry to be so terribly rude, Martin. She exhaled, feeling the tension drain from her shoulders and arms. She packed her backpack with a change of clothes, some rags, and her old length of piano wire. The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. "Yes," replied Jack.
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