The house was redolent with the smells of cinnamon baking and the stuffed turkey and marinated pork roast. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. “Why not? Isn’t the whole thing a lie? Isn’t her reputation, this husband of hers, the ‘Alcide’ business, isn’t it all a cursed juggle? She hasn’t the right to do it. ‘Not kill me, I mean. She was given a glimpse of his soul. "I am Owen Wood, at your service.
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