Lucy kicked her side, then her wounded leg, dislodging her. She dared not look directly at him, her head obscured by a gray hoodie, she had the slumped appearance of an androgynous adolescent. “I suppose all life is an affair of chances. "These writer chaps are queer birds. “I am convinced you haven’t thought this out,” he went on. “That’s what we narcs have to do. Now I know that you don’t live as close to the Beck house as you once pretended. Horrible memories of things seen beneath the microscope of the baser forms of life crawled across her mind and set her shuddering with imagined irritations. "Leave the room," interposed Kneebone, angrily. " "Well, that's fine.
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