‘But do you think I can blame you for this, Marthe?’ ‘I blame myself. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. She approached this field with her usual liveliness of apprehension. “You shall,” she said. She set her fingers in the hair and tugged, drawing him to a sitting posture and stooping so that her eyes would be on the level with his when he awoke. " Darrell returned no answer. Bah! She does not know me very well, and you—not at all.
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