'" "No, we can't stand that," hiccupped Smith, scarcely able to keep his legs. With his arms bare, the neckband of his shirt tucked in, he laboured. ” He snarled. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. At any rate, it would be good to hear him saying the sort of things he did—perhaps now she would grasp them better—with this world-shaking secret brandishing itself about inside her head within a yard of him.
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