“We are both of us trenching upon forbidden ground,” she said. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. “I’d chuck this lark right off if I were you, Vee,” he said. When you don’t have any fingers left, I take a toe. I was—I was a corespondent. The stench was cheese-like and unbearable and Lucy dry-heaved.
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