The father was a madman. Thanksgiving Day morning, Shari woke Lucy a half an hour before the sounding of the alarm. She released her clutch on it as, dizzy with exhaustion, she leaned against the back of the pew and closed her eyes, her fingers grasping out automatically for support. Opposite the gallows was an open gallery, or scaffolding, like the stand at a racecourse, which, on state occasions, was crowded with spectators. The young fellow was almost as odd in his way as the girl was in hers.
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