The mother, Cathy Beck, was as patient and as charitable of an individual that Lucy had ever known, a big kindly Polish-American woman with the heart of an angel. Old farmhouses loomed as they whizzed by, left behind in the gray like mourners. She went on her way now no longer dreaming and appreciative, but disturbed and unwillingly observant behind her mask of serene contentment. WE don’t think they’re right, but they don’t think we are. There were shadows under his eyes. Ennison had disappeared.
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