She lunched at a creamery in Great Portland Street, and as the day was full of wintry sunshine, spent the rest of the lunch-hour in a drowsy gloom, which she imagined to be thought upon the problems of her position, on a seat in Regent’s Park. An entire forest’s array of meats was served in courses brought out to the table. Clarice rubbed her belly, singing songs to the unborn baby. When she looked into their eyes, her despair put her beyond tears. It isn’t pretty, but we’re made so.
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