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. She patted John's head with her palm, its surface appealingly fuzzy. “Well, I don’t feel like standing it. This year—I’ve got it badly. “Some day you will be my wife, and it would not be well for either of us to remember that in these unhappy days you and I were separated. They flash to and fro, they thrill us with expectancy. But ——” A look checked him. She turned there and beckoned. .
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