At first she thought he was endeavouring to rid himself of the fleas, but after a time she came to understand that the muck had healing qualities and soothed the burning scratches made by his claws. There’s no sense in morality, I suppose, unless you are fundamentally immoral. God, we suck. You'll find me at supper. Lucy turned and faced the strawberry blonde behind her, gesturing rapidly with a folded origami triangle, evidently the newest form of note. "But, however, it may turn out, I disown you.
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