Detention was merry for the other detainees. I've just left your nephew. Lucy sprinted to one side to avoid the crash and grabbed at Rhea’s solitary patch of yellow hair, which ripped out loosely in one decayed piece like strands of rotten corn silk. You speak as one injured—as though I had been the one to take your name—as though you had been the one to make sacrifices. I’m starving. I’m going up to London with the Widgetts to that ball.
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