She stole the opportunity to peer at his departing figure from the closed curtains of the front room window, his shoulders slumped forward, his posture and his ego slightly deflated. “Believe what, Michelle?” Lucy asked. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. “So it’s like you’re a dead end?” He asked innocently. The day was unseasonably humid and dark, a thick fog having descended over manicured lawns. He knocked on the doorframe. When he came to a certain sentence in Brendon’s letter he stopped short and looked up at her. They shouted to her from the wings to come off. "It is too late.
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