“You mustn’t talk any more,” he said, “but I want you to listen to me just for a moment. There's something queer about that young man; but we'll never be able to find out what it is. ‘What are you, a nincompoop? She was Nicholas’s wife, of course. She had had to do away with many a leering foster father since she had started frequenting foster homes in the middle of the century. One puts gloves on one’s greedy fingers. She could tell that they too would find their legs jutting awkwardly from the petite furniture. She looked in the glass over and over as she checked for lint and makeup streaks. He was a tall man and fair, with bluish eyes that were rather protuberant, and long white hands of which he made a display. There was a wall; she was always encountering it; the one time she was able to break through this wall was when the part in his hair was crooked. It was dawn: Cathy would soon be off to the restaurant and Larry off to paint a house.
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