She wormed her way past Sebastian, glanced at her mother’s blackened face, her obscenely naked body bulging with yellow and black buboes under the arms and in the groin that oozed stinking fluid. Books! She knew now what had saved her—her mother's hand, reaching down from heaven, had set the giver's flaming eyes upon the covers of these books. They slow danced to a Bon Jovi ballad. "You play?" asked McClintock, who was sorting the rolls. Perhaps it had been pick-pocketed or jostled from her dress in a hunt. The only inconvenience I feel from my shattered noddle is an incapacity to drink. Lucy's grin faded.
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