Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. Surely she could ignore him. Your name. ‘I said you were sympathique,’ she told him. You speak as one injured—as though I had been the one to take your name—as though you had been the one to make sacrifices. ’ She dropped to her knees before her old nurse and hugged the workroughened hand with both her own, looking up into Martha’s face where slow tears were tracing down her cheek. Somehow I haven’t connected the idea with you. It was decrepit and too large.
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