Many things were only words, sounds; she could not construct these words and sounds into objects; or, if she did, invariably missed the mark. Then, her body still tense with the atoms of anger, she sat down upon the edge of the bed and rocked from side to side. “Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. We must never let your father know we went.
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