Sometimes—a lonely forlorn child—she had gone to him and put her arms around his neck. He had thought it might have that effect. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. Yet you make our Bohemianism seem like a vulgar thing. ’ ‘Mercy me,’ gasped the nun. My name is Annabel, not Anna.
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