‘Don’t fob me off, boy. What had urged her to wrench loose and fly was the guarding instinct of the good woman. The books slid from her arms and fluttered to the floor. She fluttered it with a trembling hand, averting her eyes from his, and he could hear her uneven breath behind it. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself.
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