Martha had been more to her than that. She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. " "Where are you going?" asked his mother. " "Your own was equally so," said Jackson ironically. Will you please—Not now, or I must go. She mentioned, with familiar respect, Christ and Buddha and Shelley and Nietzsche and Plato. If there is, it’s a mere wrapping—there’s better underneath. The same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase. And yet—I love you. ’ Jack blinked.
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