The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park. Lucy pinned her hair off her neck and hoped it would make her to look decidedly older. Saturday mornings at the Beck house were routine, coffee, newspaper, bagels, and Looney Toons in no particular order. She spied him sitting on his armless black couch, his feet splayed as he stared at his television blankly. Her husband finally relented. Gianfrancesco’s had curved differently and was darker. "He has not the power—perhaps not the will to do so.
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