The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. The father, granite; the daughter, fire: Spurlock saw the one and heard the other, his amazement indescribable. "You lie!" Head down, fists doubled, Spurlock rushed: only to be met with a kick which was intended for the groin but which struck the thigh instead. Would it be Thérèse?’ She shook her head. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth.
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