Her pat answer to all inquiries was, “I let my sister Shari make me over,” while she kept from staring at her own reflection in the shiny shoes past her bare knees. She gaped at its keep, at least ten feet tall, a frightening gray coffin turned upright. The wheel and the navigating instruments were sternward, under a spread of heavy canvas, a protection against rain and sun. His attitude toward her was purely intellectual, free of any sentimentality, utterly selfish. Come and see him, Lucia. ‘I’m only a poor country wench, child.
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