Warm reality was now so near her she could hear it beating in her ears. Shari proceeded to paint, brush, dust, slather, and blot Lucy’s face with makeup. Come along, you mad jade. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. The satisfaction of cheating Death again. She came in while he was still in the throes, conviction battling with commonsense, his own apprehension.
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