"He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. " Still his brain refused to assimilate the news or to deduce the tremendous importance of it. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. She hated tricking Shari, whose joy for life was the only thing that made her naive enough to fall for laced iced tea or hot cocoa, depending on the season. It was not the arrival of the guests, but merely the maid moving about in the hall. " Immediately he stepped back. No work that offered was at all of the quality she had vaguely postulated for herself. The tree-lined streets were silent except for the sporadic revving of glass packs down Church Avenue. Her back arched and she felt herself instinctively sinking into him.
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