Sheppard. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. She grasped at the right one, massaging where his grip had been and Gerald hoped he had not bruised her. “There’s another instinct, too,” he went on, “in a state of suppression, unless I’m very much mistaken; a child-expelling instinct. ‘Leave it, imbecile.
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