Perhaps an hour passed before she laid aside the book. Perhaps that was why Sheila began to observe Lucy, because both of them were poignantly aware of Lucy’s otherness. No amount of scrubbing could remove the stains, the blood of an unknown man she had stolen from the scene of a car accident, a stupid drunk with no license who had wrapped his Chevy truck around a very large oak tree. (What was the name he had given her that day?) He was walking beside the chair upon which appeared to be a bundle of colours. ” “I wonder,” he said, a trifle irrelevantly, “what the future has in store for you.
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