“When did you look up my mother’s records at the Joliet library, Michelle?” Lucy asked, trying not to incriminate herself by sounding confrontational. “Are you sick, Michelle? Maybe you should have stayed home. That he was hot and breathless was of no matter; in that moment he would have faced a dozen Samsons. He had tossed an honoured name into the mire; he required no prison bars to accentuate this misery. The Wastrel, his eyes full of humorous evil, stood inside the room.
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