"Is it indeed you, or am I dreaming?" "You're not dreaming, mother," he answered. Her hair got loose, her hat came over one eye, and she had no arm free to replace it. She remembered possessing it during the Gold Rush. But if not himself, there would be another soon enough. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. An astonished Jack Kimble was revealed in the aperture. Morningside Park had been passive and defective; all this rushed about and was active, but it was still defective. So good an opportunity may never occur again.
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