Lucy had tried for years to find a way of not getting blood all over herself when she made a kill. She had a feeling as though something had dropped from her eyes, as though she had just discovered herself for the first time—discovered herself as a sleepwalker might do, abruptly among dangers, hindrances, and perplexities, on the verge of a cardinal crisis. “Yes. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. The family always managed to make it home for supper, even though it was a dying custom. "To go a little further. ” The hand lingered too long.
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