But he was now too deeply moved to trace a certain unsatisfactoriness to its source in a mixture of metaphors. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. ‘Doesn’t she, Gerald?’ Gerald held up his hands. He motioned the young man to the rear chair, because at that hour the youth appeared to be a quantity close to zero. 47, straightening her hat and waiting for her luggage to appear.
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