Many things were only words, sounds; she could not construct these words and sounds into objects; or, if she did, invariably missed the mark. Decidedly this was imbecile. " It was curiously like the intermittent murmur of the surf, those weird Sundays, when her father paused for breath to launch additional damnation for those who disobeyed the Word. There is something sensual in the thought of lotus flowers.
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