The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. It ran in rivulets down her face, penetrating her hood and the thick quilting of her coat. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. ’ ‘By all means,’ agreed Lucy at once, and ignoring the automatic protest that issued from Roding’s lips, she threw a command over her shoulder as she turned to go. Michelle waved to her, then flitted over to where she was sitting.
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