She tried to imagine the collective effect of the Fadden Ball; she had never seen a fancy-dress gathering in her life. “That’s suicidal bullshit, Lucy. "But I can guess what it's for. "If the best nag ever foaled were to throw me in this unlucky spot, I'd blow his brains out. He envied her a little. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach.
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