A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek. Brendon’s had an awful stroke of luck. Had he been sick in the mind when he had done this damnable thing? It did not seem possible, for he could recall clearly all he had said and done; there were no blank spaces to give him one straw of excuse. “But don’t you know about me?” he said at last. But I’d have done it without, though it weren’t my place. She heard the television blaring away.
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