I can't keep a good man beyond three pay-days. ” Lucy said, watching people mechanically pump quarters into the till. E. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. His figure was tall and commanding, and the expression of his countenance (though somewhat disturbed by his recent exertion) was resolute and stern. The horns were the worst, slipping in and out of tune and rushing the easy sections, fighting everyone else. Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. He resented being regarded as irregular. And Pottiswick, of course. Its importance had vanished with her abandonment of compromise.
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