There were lines in her face that age had not put there. She slept in a bedroom clad in linens and skins, walked down hallways bedecked in the most gay and colorful frescos. “When did you look up my mother’s records at the Joliet library, Michelle?” Lucy asked, trying not to incriminate herself by sounding confrontational. Sheila bellowed, a great wail of a sound from deep in her belly, flinging her tremendous weight towards him. Lord, I am sixty.
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