In a tall glass the rind of a Syrian orange was arranged in spiral form. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. And nothing to tell her where to begin. Cathy reached out and touched Lucy’s chin with her two fingers, gently commanding her attention.
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