. Her thoughts took words for themselves. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. Her neck was smeared with red and remorse flooded him. After all, what did it matter?—it or anything else in the world? She was within reach of his arms, beautiful, compelling, herself as it seemed suddenly conscious of the light which was burning in his eyes. They WERE, she realized, acutely beautiful things.
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