She refused to accept her fate, but what is it that she could do about it? Night after night she invented alternatives. She had lost her nerve, and there was no more freedom in London for her that night. His name was Peter. From under his pillow he dragged forth the key to the trunk. There was a murmur or two among the watchers on the bench, but no one ventured to intervene again. “When did you look up my mother’s records at the Joliet library, Michelle?” Lucy asked, trying not to incriminate herself by sounding confrontational.
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