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 felt he was going to say something more—something still more personal and intimate. The spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sunshine of youth —a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold. He used to call it his fire-escape—ha! ha! I've often used the ladder for my own convenience, but I never expected to turn it to such good account. He saw now that it was merely a boy.
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