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. “There, there, now. " "In whose favour is it made?" he inquired, sternly. . If he ran less risk of being blown over, he stood a much greater chance of being washed off, or stifled. And, without another word, he seized the table with both hands, and upset it; scattering plates, dishes, bottles, jugs, and glasses far and wide.
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