Many things were only words, sounds; she could not construct these words and sounds into objects; or, if she did, invariably missed the mark. ‘Gérard—’ ‘What now?’ he asked, rife with suspicion. Her recent attitude towards him was undoubtedly a pose. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. Lucy changed into her Goodwill jeans and sweatshirt, plastering her hair down with an elastic band and securing it under a tight hood.
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