“Great, Cathy. ” Lucy felt herself grow feverish inside. Mike was already on dishwasher duty when John rang the doorbell. “Queer letters he writes,” she said. He can't be far off. Then she sat watching the play, sometimes offering a helpful suggestion, sometimes letting her attention wander to the smoothly shining arms she had folded across her knees just below the edge of the table. Lucy propped Michelle against a thick, knobby tree stump. She turned with an effort.
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