“One hardly knows—all the time. She was in deadly earnest in everything she did. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. Who? Could it be Gerald? Quickly, she looked back at Gosse’s face, and found him frowning. Many things were only words, sounds; she could not construct these words and sounds into objects; or, if she did, invariably missed the mark.
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