. \" Michelle replied. She rose and attacked Lucy, kicking her with the grafted leg that was too big for her body. Her little bedsitting-room was like a lair, and she went out from it into this vast, dun world, with its smoke-gray houses, its glaring streets of shops, its dark streets of homes, its orange-lit windows, under skies of dull copper or muddy gray or black, much as an animal goes out to seek food. Slowly and reluctantly she came to realize that Vivie Warren was what is called an “ideal.
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