The wound lay open for five seconds, and then closed neatly as if it had been stitched by invisible hands. ‘Dolt! Muttonheaded oaf! Why the deuce couldn’t he have sent you home?’ Valade cut in at that. “Don’t we all rather humbug about the coarseness? All we women, I mean,” said she. "You want him?" "Please!" said Ruth. She found herself mildly entertained by staring at the houses through the rain as she walked home, all cast in a gray blurry film noir gauze of rain. "These writer chaps are queer birds. Without care he will die. His fears were allayed once he checked the answering machine to hear their analog voices reporting their arrival at the Colorado airport. I want to fill it with fine and precious things.
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