“Shit!” John quickly countered, “What are you going to do? She’s a motor-mouth, Lucy, of the worst kind. Sure, I lose one occasionally—if he stays in New York. She slipped down the perfunctory flight of stairs, short because of the home’s split-level style. Brown was no fool, and he understood the sudden onus of the other children to share the limelight. Thames, you needn't tidy yourself, as you've hurt your arm. I ask you, although it is not my place to ask you, to return home. ‘Damn you, what’s the matter with you?’ he snapped in frustration.
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