She dressed quickly, pulling on white jeans and a red tee shirt. “It was a bad day for me,” he said, speaking slowly and painfully. It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford. Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. Some automaton within her produced in a quite unfamiliar voice the remark, “They’re playing football. The rascal will be at work before the morning. Daily contact with actual human beings all the more inclined her toward the imaginative. There was question in Gerald’s gaze as it met hers, and apology in his voice. .
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