And then suddenly—a relief. “The point is we’re not toys, toys isn’t the word; we’re litter. Ramage,” she said, sharply, “I have to make it plain to you. ‘You have the means to take up your rightful place. I do not want to hear from you even the threat of disobedience. 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.
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