Lucy stared like an automaton at Michelle’s unconscious 262 body, revolted at her own actions to the point of shock. Rows of roasted duck, brilliantly varnished; luscious vegetables, which she had been warned against; baskets of melon seed and water-chestnuts; men working in teak and blackwood; fan makers and jade cutters; eggs preserved in what appeared to her as petrified muck; bird's nests and shark fins. Katy’s face was vapid and undistinguishable from a crowd, but pretty in an abstract sense, like the face of a baby doll. Her head was downcast as she studied the museum-like exhibits of various dusts on the resilient tile flooring. “Why?” “I still love you. Lucy cringed, her eyes widening.
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