” Lucy finished Michelle’s sentence and steeled her resolve, drawing herself up to a straighter posture. You Americans laugh at our custom of honouring our ancestors, our many-times great grandfathers. As to following, there was no one. My mother, I'm sure, didn't intend to hurt your feelings. She found an old drunk wandering the streets. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. A remittance man. She did not wince. His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor.
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