After that night she made it a habit. Sheila plucked it out of Lucy’s hamper with some of Lucy’s panties and brassieres, figuring that she’d help out because she was doing a load of whites anyway. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. Her situation was perplexing her very much, and the Widgett atmosphere was lax and sympathetic, and provocative of discussion. Bodies! Bodies! Horrible things! We are souls.
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