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. She pointed across the road. "And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son. Sheppard's weight had destroyed the equilibrium of the plank: it swerved, and slowly descended. Can I be accommodated with a seat, Mr. “Why do you kill me?” Michelle asked.
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