She packed her backpack with a change of clothes, some rags, and her old length of piano wire. To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic. But he seized the chance to entrap her fingers, fan and all, and look deeply into her eyes. ’ ‘But what of justice?’ asked Lucilla, evidently dazed. Charcoal.
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