"Where am I to take it to?" asked Sheppard. Lucy aimed the firearm at Rhea’s chest. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. ‘No. You cannot—shall not retreat. Lucy sat in the back seat as the trio sped through intersections in the old sedan. It feels like I’ve got a snake of mucus stuffing my entire throat, just one big solid rope. Then he relaxed back a little, and let the weapon dangle from his fingers. “I don’t think she quite sees the harm of those people or the sort of life to which they would draw her,” she said. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. “For luck. I should have gone mad without it. I don’t idealize you.
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