Lucy asked Michelle if “Pfister” kept the bras and panties of misfits for their trophy value, or perhaps sold them on the black market to perverted old men. The affair was thick with sinister suggestions. Even Blueskin looked on with anxiety. They’re in grad school and they both live in New York. Both had dropped the rather elaborate politeness of the dining-room, and in their faces an impartial observer would have discovered little lines of obstinate wilfulness in common; a certain hardness—sharp, indeed, in the father and softly rounded in the daughter—but hardness nevertheless, that made every compromise a bargain and every charity a discount. The water was cold but she waded deeper. Lucy kissed him on the cheek.
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