Lucy slept in the same room as Shari, only ten feet away. The mother, Cathy Beck, was as patient and as charitable of an individual that Lucy had ever known, a big kindly Polish-American woman with the heart of an angel. Somewhere in the world there was a book clerk with a discerning mind; for he had given her the best he had. "Do you think I'm afeard of a beggarly thief-taker and his myrmidons? Not I. Stanley. America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward. Her spirit awoke in dismay to an affection in ruins, to the immense undignified disaster that had come to them. But for all that, it offered relief; his brain, stupefied by the fumes, grew dull, and conscience lost its edge to bite. It’s time she knew.
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