On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. Unless they remind him now and then not to. . . What does it matter? It is here, and it is here to stay. Lucy thought of a song that she had not been able to get out of her head since the Fifties. Again, he would ask a few questions, and Ruth would answer them. Her eyes were perhaps a little brighter than usual, the firelight played about her hair, there seemed to him to be a sudden softening of the straight firm mouth.
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