He might have been a complete innocent, she did not know and did not bother to find out. He lost control of the machine, was upset and nearly killed. Husband of mine, I think we have rather overrated the emotional capacity of those—those dears. He often wanted only to drive with her in the car, both of them staring at the scenery in silence for hours. While he was meditating flight in this way, and tossing about on the straw, he chanced upon an old broken and rusty fork. To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic. She required no instructions from books; her wit and beauty were her own. Immeasurable disgust possessed her.
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