Cathy chimed. “Why?” he asked, suavely. “You silly wimmin,” he said over and over again throughout the hearing, plucking at his blotting-pad with busy hands. A few steps brought him to the door of the vault in which his mother was immured. A dull light shone through the open window blinds and softened the room with parchment yellowness. “I want a vote for myself,” she said. Perhaps that is why I lost my ambition. I knew it would be good because all Spielberg movies are good. In truth, Sheila never saw Lucy murder anyone at all, she only saw the blood.
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