Usually it was fish sticks and reheated noodles. It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. At times he was brilliant and masterful, talked round and over every one, and would have been domineering if he had not been extraordinarily kindly; at times he was almost monosyllabic, and defeated Miss Garvice’s most skilful attempts to draw him out. “You must do more than think of it,” he urged.
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