"Your son," answered the boy. Lucy sat in back of Jane Lenihan, who never spoke to her. It was like the grin of a fiend, and made my flesh creep on my bones. For now, I fear there is something worse, something more present. He climbed on top of her, pressing her into the couch cushions, the gown billowing around them like a cotton candy parachute. Her head felt absurdly like one of those noddling manikins in the Hong-Kong curio-shops. Heaven forbid.
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