E. She awoke at 11:12 am, her foster sister snoring in the bed across the room. They were alike in one phase—loveless and lonely. Flesh and blood, vivid, alluring; she was no longer the symbol, therefore she had become, as in the twinkling of an eye, an utter stranger. That’s the fact of the matter. “I will come—with pleasure,” she said, “if you will promise to treat me as a new acquaintance—not to refer to—Paris—at all. One with the appearance of a bald little gnome yawned agonizingly. A sound sleeper, she was not roused by the creaky openings and closings of drawers as Lucy packed a single duffle bag with underwear and soap that was pilfered from a multipack of Zest in the Beck’s downstairs bathroom. The lady's name's engraved inside, but so small I can scarcely read it.
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