This is not true at all. The Enschede Bible—the one out of which she read—had been strangely mutilated. “Sheila and Mark McCloskey?” Michelle asked. Her linen gown was soft against the heavy skins. Michelle winked at her and left to join the gathering of seats in the center of the theater. At this point Lucy, in an effort perhaps—foolhardy, in Gerald’s opinion—to pour oil on troubled waters, rose swiftly to her feet and came towards the old man, her hand held out.
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