Her heavy pistol came up again, although she did not rise. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. "I'll not believe it. 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 packed her backpack with a change of clothes, some rags, and her old length of piano wire. "And had you been the worst scoundrel unhung, I'd have seen to it that you had the same care, the same chance.
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