"Mr. At any rate, here I am, and here I shall be, twenty thousand feet above all your poison-reeking cities, up where God’s wind comes fresh from heaven, very near indeed to the untrodden snows. Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. She was noisy and hilarious and enthusiastic, and her hair was always abominably done.
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