73 < 10 > AT HOME, 1982 Lucy woke up the next morning with Shari’s slow sonorous breathing only a few feet away. We must always move on. Her eyes were perhaps a little brighter than usual, the firelight played about her hair, there seemed to him to be a sudden softening of the straight firm mouth. “Thank you,” she said coolly. He was never drunk in the accepted meaning of the word; rather he walked in a kind of stupefaction.
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