"I give you all of my genius, and you say—'Get out!' I am some kind of a dog. Lucy had snuck in the back door by the kitchen and Sheila was ready for her, standing between the stove 124 and the refrigerator. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava.
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