The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had. “Are you A, B, C, or D?” he asked. \" Lucy replied. People had started filling the hall: instrumentalists, overly conscientious parents. You may have something to conceal, you may not. ‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’ The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness. “I have not left this apartment myself.
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