There was no one at all in this room, but through the half-open door of one of the small apartments that gave upon it she had a glimpse of two very young girls sitting at a littered table and writing briskly. He let go of the girl’s arm. “Shut up, you little faggot. There’s something about you, a little flavor of Will, I suppose, that makes one feel—good luck about you and success. The original passage, Martha had told her, had led only from an upstairs room to one downstairs.
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