It wailed at Lucy, chubby arms reaching towards her, pleading. “Mary Lucia. I was always told my mother died the day I was born. Women are hypocrites to the last—true only to themselves. Ruth stared into the painted face, now sundrily cracked by the coursing tears. Wood in the deepest mourning. Cathy reached out and touched Lucy’s chin with her two fingers, gently commanding her attention. Then most horribly she was clasped about the waist from behind and lifted from the ground.
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