Michelle had charitably taken to sitting with Lucy during Lunch Period, where she assumed a station at the outer edges of the Cafeteria, the crowd diffusing in concentric orbits, the middle tables reserved for only the most prestigious castes. "No!" she cried. Wood's bed-chamber—it was locked, with the key left in it. "What's that you're taking to Sir Rowland Trenchard's?" "Only a box, Sir," answered Sheppard, emptying the glass. There was a murmur or two among the watchers on the bench, but no one ventured to intervene again.
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