Lucy stood in front of the piano. There would be no mercy in this man. Her face is shaped funny, real long and skinny, and she has no chin. She noted the dank hair on his forehead, the sweat of revolting nature. “What’s wrong with having witchcraft books? Is she afraid that the Princeton Hill villagers will burn you at stake?” Lucy asked sarcastically. “I heard the clock strike as I crossed the square,” she answered. She moved her hand off of his knee, deliberately slow.
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