It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. He would know the truth then once and for all. She was going to him soon and certainly, going to his strong, embracing arms. The acid of this incertitude had disintegrated his nerve; and in Canton had come the smash. He squinted and a disgusted look came over him. It’s kind of the World War II thing.
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