It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. It is in the lower cupboard. Was he really awake? The arrival and departure of this strange father lacked the essential human touch to make it real. She had not chosen her life, but she was foggy on whether or not it was right to deny others the right to join her in her suffering. Into this hole in the wall and out of it the native stream flowed from sunrise to sunset, when the stream mysteriously ceased.
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