The piece, in three movements, was short enough anyway. Lucy finished Michelle off, leaving only a dry, unrecognizable husk. She had been built for canvas and oil-lamps, and this new thingumajig that kept her nose snoring at eight knots when normally she was able to boil along at ten, and these unblinking things they called lamps (that neither smoked nor smelled), irked and threatened to ruin her temper. Certainly I cannot kill you if you tell me to do so. Then she would write and tell her father what she had done, and put their relationship on a new footing. They weren’t very chummy with one another but Sheila 113 didn’t expect much from a foster daughter as long as she worked hard, very hard, to earn her keep. But you—you have a good face.
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