She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. Lucy treaded down two steps, stunned. A home MAY be a sort of cage, but still—it’s a home. Anticipating this, Wild avoided the shot by suddenly, ducking his head. . She pointed suddenly at the portrait. When first you left your home you had no idea that I was the hidden impulse. Good-bye aunt. It was Annabel who caught at the paper.
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