But she was not sure just how to reach it. "I do," replied Kneebone. Lucy could smell that Michelle was the body type that easily became cancerous, and fast. 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. It does not matter to him either way. The eggs were all right, but nobody in this part of the world had the least conception of what the coffee bean was for. Of what was she thinking? She must rescue herself.
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