Her mind went on generalizing. Spurlock knew that somewhere along the way he would write a story worth while. 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. There's good stuff in him, if one could find the way to dig it out. ‘How dull it must have been for you, poor little one.
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