“Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. Her heels made contact with Rhea’s knees and hobbled her with a crack. She donned her fuzzy slippers and traipsed downstairs, the welcoming smell of coffee beckoning her, the sound of Looney Toons music barely audible from the television set. “Would you stand it? I’m going to clear out. Kneebone's man is in the shop," said Rachel; "he'll take it. And now she was discovering that even Nature was something of a liar, with her mirages and her horizons.
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