Lucy looked at the stains on the threadbare carpeting to distract herself, embarrassed to her core. She no more realizes what she has done than a child of eight. You can give up thinking and leave all the brain work to her. A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter. She was strong, not unlike a pack mule or a camel; she thought to herself and smirked.
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