Feigning an air of casualness, Lucy asked the obvious. “I suppose you’ll come to the point soon—if there is one. ‘You ain’t got nothing on me. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. Abruptly, Gerald turned. .
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