Who's the lucky boy, Lucy?\" Lucy looked at her slippered feet. It wasn’t clear to me that I had to explain. “You go home and think of all this,” he said, “and talk about it to-morrow. By the time she was done, the bodies in the bathtub were gathering flies. Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth.
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