He held in his hands many threads. They don’t catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its—its outer aspects. She gaped at its keep, at least ten feet tall, a frightening gray coffin turned upright. She was the first to hear another car approaching from the street, an odd occurrence in an elementary school lot that had been abandoned for the weekend. Little by little, she stopped hating him. He pressed the long shapely hand warmly in his.
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