But he has never been near her—never. She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. “Julian, I don’t know how to put this. So, why did you slam the door in John Diedermayer's face?\" Lucy did not look at her, but cocked her head skyward.
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