The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise. The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees. “Have you got to keep her now?” “To the best of my ability,” said Mr. Wild's figure. “Are you cold?” He asked her, cocking his head to one side like a puppy, so close that the heat of his words warmed her cheek. There has never been a white woman at McClintock's. Clotilde pried Fritz from Lucy’s left leg where he was clinging. That dress is thirty years old, if a day.
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