Clarice rubbed her belly, singing songs to the unborn baby. Only Gwen left a letter on the pincushion. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit. Many things were only words, sounds; she could not construct these words and sounds into objects; or, if she did, invariably missed the mark. "Jonathan does what he pleases in the courts.
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