Their faces were masks of abject horror, sunken and shriveled, their cheekbones protruding. “When did you get home last night, Lucy?” Cathy interrogated through a yawn. Her father held some printed document in his hand, and appeared not to observe her entry. Fiercely defensive, as usual. He might have supposed the fellow would be eager to be rid of the tale, for that he might have longer to enjoy the amenities of the Triumphal Chariot where the meeting had been appointed. Little did I imagine at the time that it was my own father to whom he referred.
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