Lucy sprinted to one side to avoid the crash and grabbed at Rhea’s solitary patch of yellow hair, which ripped out loosely in one decayed piece like strands of rotten corn silk. Kneebone, his impertinence was copied to the letter by Solomon. “Not home yet, miss,” the young man replied. “Wild horses—not if they have all the mounted police in London—shan’t keep me out. But it means no end of a row.
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