Everything was very neat; it had evidently been straightened up and kept for her. She tolerated spitballs in her curly hair and had to buy a new backpack when hers was stolen. Upon what this instinct was based she could not say; she was conscious only of its insistence. “Who the hell are you, Lucy?” “Promise me you will never tell anyone. Her complexion was wan and faded, except where it was tinged by a slight hectic flush, that made the want of colour more palpable; her eyes were large and black, but heavy and lustreless; her cheeks sunken; her frame emaciated; her dark hair thickly scattered with gray.
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