She was, she guessed, close to the library. Her pat answer to all inquiries was, “I let my sister Shari make me over,” while she kept from staring at her own reflection in the shiny shoes past her bare knees. Her mother had prepared her for everything. He's young and sound. Lucy had been ignoring her, not purposefully, but noticeably. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. I understand.
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