I had dreamt of the olive grove beyond the courtyard I had once been fascinated 198 with as a boy. The weed was all right. “You go home and think of all this,” he said, “and talk about it to-morrow. I jumped then—I was not even shaken. It fits your style. We’re hard stuff!” Then she went on: “To think that is my father! Oh, my dear! He stood over me like a cliff; the thought of him nearly turned me aside from everything we have done. Sheila bellowed, a great wail of a sound from deep in her belly, flinging her tremendous weight towards him. The comparisons upon which she could draw were few and confusingly new, mixed with reality and the loose artistic conceptions of heroes in fiction. She went to a writing-desk and made some memoranda on a sheet of note-paper, and then remembered that she had no address as yet to which letters could be sent. She woke up choking and belching water. Consternation gripped him. She spied him sitting on his armless black couch, his feet splayed as he stared at his television blankly.
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