Then with an indescribable relief her feet were on the pavement, and she was being urged along by two policemen, who were gripping her wrists in an irresistible expert manner. Lucy sprinted to one side to avoid the crash and grabbed at Rhea’s solitary patch of yellow hair, which ripped out loosely in one decayed piece like strands of rotten corn silk. "Owen, Owen," pursued Mrs. Somebody tricked you back yonder—baited you for spite. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth.
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