She gave her a wink when John had turned to ask Mark if Lucy could ride home with them. Perhaps the boys had already faced off and he had missed it, he thought sourly. In truth, Sheila never saw Lucy murder anyone at all, she only saw the blood. The little streaks upon the germinating area of an egg, the nervous movements of an impatient horse, the trick of a calculating boy, the senses of a fish, the fungus at the root of a garden flower, and the slime upon a sea-wet rock—ten thousand such things bear their witness and are illuminated.
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