None saw, though all felt, his presence, and heard the thunder of his voice. They would arrive sometime in June. She had seen a man’s head steal out for a moment and draw the curtains a little closer. A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls. Then she looked up the sweep of pine-trees to the towering sunlit cliffs and the high heaven above and then back to his face. “That’s not working so well for you, is it?” She looked at him sheepishly, bringing a Kleenex out of her pocket to wipe away the excess. “It’s a matter of feeling with me. ‘Very wise,’ commented Gerald. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised.
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