There she sought and at last found 107A, one of those heterogeneous piles of offices which occupy the eastern side of the lane. The man who sat behind a pigeon-hole, and regulated the comings and goings, was for a moment absent. I almost wish we hadn't come. Lucy sprinted to one side to avoid the crash and grabbed at Rhea’s solitary patch of yellow hair, which ripped out loosely in one decayed piece like strands of rotten corn silk. The house was full of aunts, uncles, and cousins meandering about, stuffed until their seams and zippers were bursting.
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