Lucy could smell that Michelle was the body type that easily became cancerous, and fast. Of animal life, there was nothing left but monkeys and wild pig, the latter having been domesticated. She was dressed in one of those complicated dresses that are all lace and work and confused patternings of black and purple and cream about the body, and she was in many ways a younger feminine version of the same theme as himself. He stood transfixed. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think.
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