“You are very good,” she said. Still, it was rather terrible to suspect that one had fallen from grace, but nevertheless the thing was possible. But in that reservation it may be she went a little beyond the converse of his view. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. Two children, who had been caught in the jam-closet: ingratiating smiles, back of which lay doubt and fear. Vorsack sat alone at his computer in his pajamas. We two just love each other—the real, identical other—all the time. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations.
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