“Where am I?” he muttered. "But you mustn't indulge these gloomy thoughts. See how he gets on, father," he added, appealing to Wood: "the box seems to grow under his hands. Their heads touched again, their arms tightened. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade.
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