Better to remain silent. In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. What was his problem, she thought to herself. She hated being angry, the uselessness of it all, the frustration. Lucy kicked her side, then her wounded leg, dislodging her. ‘I know what it means, numbskull! Didn’t spend years in the confounded country without picking up some of their infernal tongue.
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