In truth, Sheila never saw Lucy murder anyone at all, she only saw the blood. She could tell that he was leering at her. The man had favoured him with a brief nod, but the girl had gone so far as to offer a tiny smile, and a look under her lashes with which not even Gerald, for all his scant interest in female society, could fail to be familiar. She held out her hand frankly. “It’s your birthday today, May Day.
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