Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. Walking to the station with him. She was aware of people—her aunt, her father, her fellow-students, friends, and neighbors— moving about outside this glowing secret, very much as an actor is aware of the dim audience beyond the barrier of the footlights. On the Day he had trumpet-like outbreaks of cordiality, varied by a watchful preoccupation. “It is your sister and her husband,” he said. When it came time to eat once again, she hid out on the beach, a remote fastness beyond the city walls, a swampy morass that everyone avoided.
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