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. You are your nephew's executioner, or he is yours. It had been a part of the vast domain of the servants in the house’s earlier incarnation. “Now,” he said, “no one can blunder in upon us. We close the chapter.
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