The blast once more swept over the agitated river: whirled off the sheets of foam, scattered them far and wide in rain-drops, and left the raging torrent blacker than before. Of a certainty, she also was imbecile. Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. The emerald wings, slashed with scarlet and yellow, wheeling and swooping about her head, there among the wild plantain. I never had even a real doll," she added, as she snuggled the flea-bitten head to her heart.
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