So she took up Stevenson and began to read aloud. His name was Peter. That terrible laughter, just before his senses had left him! Why? Here was a word that volleyed at her from all directions, numbed and bewildered her: the multiple echoes of her own first utterance of the word. The expression was wholly different. She was asked to meet him after his game Saturday afternoon. But for perfect satisfaction, he must take a peek into the bedroom. “Let us walk round to Covent Garden,” he suggested. It isn’t illusions—for us.
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