The rest was easy. As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall. So, very carefully, he raised her in his arms and carried her to her bed. “Want one?” Michelle deadpanned. Everything seemed designed to unhinge the mind and make the cat wretched. She had never heard anything so unholy. She donned her fuzzy slippers and traipsed downstairs, the welcoming smell of coffee beckoning her, the sound of Looney Toons music barely audible from the television set.
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