The deafening report froze time. ‘It’s my belief she is a nun. For so far she had kept it uncashed. ” She scoffed. Michelle was on her like a fly, asking her questions about her past foster homes she did her best to avoid, pretending to be swamped every night with sudden reams of homework and unable to be reached by phone. Her little bedsitting-room was like a lair, and she went out from it into this vast, dun world, with its smoke-gray houses, its glaring streets of shops, its dark streets of homes, its orange-lit windows, under skies of dull copper or muddy gray or black, much as an animal goes out to seek food. There was another phrase which sounded something like 'Gin in a blue-serge coat'.
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