Her mind wandered back to that fateful day. " "I feel it," replied Jack, in a tone of agony, "and I feel it more on my poor mother's account than my own. ‘Grace à dieu, he breathes still. The tree-lined streets were silent except for the sporadic revving of glass packs down Church Avenue. Sheila pounded the kitchen table, causing the bell jar with the silk flowers to tip over and roll to the floor. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative.
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