Her concluding paragraph was, on the whole, perhaps, hardly starchy enough. “Lucy, my brother is home and I borrowed the cash from him. She felt herself falling, her bile rising in her 61 throat, the cold wind spinning around her like vertigo. “When did you look up my mother’s records at the Joliet library, Michelle?” Lucy asked, trying not to incriminate herself by sounding confrontational. “Hotel Ritz,” he said mechanically to the coachman. People were passing in the street below. “Have you told anybody else?” Lucy asked.
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