“Sort of man who can see no further than his nose,” he remarked contemptuously. He tasted like cinders and ash, but not of smoke. Michelle had charitably taken to sitting with Lucy during Lunch Period, where she assumed a station at the outer edges of the Cafeteria, the crowd diffusing in concentric orbits, the middle tables reserved for only the most prestigious castes. Fate has two methods of procedure—the sudden and the long-drawn-out.
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