Lucy had passed the house once on the sidewalk, on a rare day when he was shoveling snow. ‘Bête,’ she flung at him. She never calls herself ‘Alcide. “Poor Lucy!” Cathy exclaimed as she rushed in the door, umbrella sheathed. ‘No mistaking you this time. The likeness was ridiculous. “She must go her own way. She could feel her face turning beet red.
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