Standing over the pierced Rhea, Lucy bayed, a long cry that was half-scream and half-howl. Hanging on the wall was a temple censer, bronze, moulded in the shape of a lotus blossom with stem and leaves—deadly as a club. “Odd!” she said. He seemed so clean anyway, his fair 215 skin, his light brown hair, there almost seemed to be no point. Girls erupted in waves of whispering as soon as she passed them by.
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