It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. ” “I don’t believe it,” he answered hoarsely. Her eyes flashed. ’ ‘But I can’t leave you, miss. “But why now? Don’t boys know that I am involved with John right now?” “That’s not the way it works, Lucy. .
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