It was a habit of his to talk to himself. “I wonder!” said Miss Stanley. Standing over the pierced Rhea, Lucy bayed, a long cry that was half-scream and half-howl. She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. The children made us slaves, and the men took advantage of it.
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