Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. “I’ve been,” she said, “forbidden to come. You understand me, Charcoal. This was automatically rather than thoughtfully done; habit. She smiled encouragingly, laying aside her plate and turning her chair from the table. The real ‘Alcide’,” she wound up with a faint smile across the table at him, “is here.
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