“I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. Anna failed in her painting, our money was gone, and she was forced to earn her own living. ’ ‘She is no longer a mystery,’ Gerald said. Her momentary instinct was to run to him and be comforted, like the old times. I'm about to ring for supper. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade.
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