Lucy went hunting on a Thursday night. She was dressed as English girls do dress for town, without either coquetry or harshness: her collarless blouse confessed a pretty neck, her eyes were bright and steady, and her dark hair waved loosely and graciously over her ears. “It’s not for us to supplicate any more. "One of us has got to die," he panted. Sordid; but that was not Ruth's term for it; she had no precise commentary to offer.
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