Upon my word—you are Miss Pellissier, aren’t you?” “I certainly am,” she admitted. If only one might open the shutters and let in the light. Only three days. “I’m thirsty. 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. She mentally reprimanded herself to alter her own visage so as not to appear depraved.
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