Plote was sleeping or deaf. “Dear me!” he said. “Lucy!” He whispered into her ear beneath a dusty curtain cloud. He remained talking with her however. Another glass, Jack. “Martin Chen!” Michelle shouted his name in an outburst, like an invocation. ‘To read and write, of course, and to sew. “Indeed,” she said, “it was very fortunate that I should have met you this afternoon.
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