Lucy asked Michelle if “Pfister” kept the bras and panties of misfits for their trophy value, or perhaps sold them on the black market to perverted old men. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. She moved a little nearer to him. "In with him!" "Ay—ay, yer hon'r," cried the foremost chairman, lending a helping hand. She licked his neck, which put him over the top. Breakfast, too, was an impossible occasion. The work of plunder over, that of destruction commenced. She stared at him.
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