Gerald’s thoughts raced as he reached out supporting hands and murmured meaningless phrases to soothe. His quiet, kindly smile implied his serene disbelief in any confessible thing. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. Her father had determined on a new line. You were with your mother, the two of you huddled like thieves, laughing at the silly women who tried to shield themselves from rain by cowering under empty baskets and shawls. It made me wake up, and there I lay thinking of you, spending your nights up here all alone, and no one to look after you.
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