Ed. ’ ‘What?’ Appalled, Gerald could only gaze at her. He had dungarees on and a blue work shirt. The ceiling had, in many places, given way; the laths had been removed; and, where any plaster remained, it was either mapped and blistered with damps, or festooned with dusty cobwebs. He was painfully in earnest, too. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. Kneebone assured her that he did say so; and, as a further proof of his sincerity, squeezed her hand very warmly under the table. To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic. A new restlessness seemed to have stolen in upon her.
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