He stared at the woman depicted thereon for a long moment, awe in his head. One from 1966, a yearbook photo reprinted in a newspaper. “Good,” he said, as he watched the colour come back to her cheeks. It was rude and disrespectful to raise her eyes to him, her mother had warned. In the present case it did not matter, as there was no one else within earshot. Every word you utter puzzles me. It presented itself in the likeness of a great, gray, dull world—a brutal, superstitious, confused, and wrong-headed world, that hurt people and limited people unaccountably. Bird, the turner, to give him an order this evening.
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