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. “This is all very well,” she said, “but two out of the three are rank deserters— and if the papers tell the truth the third is as bad. “She’s all right. “Shot through the lungs,” he remarked. Take my word for it, your troubles are over.
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