” To remain, she felt, was to concede everything. It never is. 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. She saw his face change, how he regretted. John introduced the tall boy. “For nothing, do you call it?” he declared. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. Spurlock was by nature orderly, despite his literary activities. But Miss Stanley took no notice of these things. As to following, there was no one. . “But your sister?” he asked. The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray.
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