Many things were only words, sounds; she could not construct these words and sounds into objects; or, if she did, invariably missed the mark. Diane spooned warm apple-rhubarb pie onto the girl’s plates, topping each with scoops of ice cream. “Thank you,” he said, “for letting me back. It was bleeding again. He said nothing, even though it was not raining. Yet the smoke was curling upwards in a faint innocent-looking cloud to the ceiling.
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