“Loneliness,” she said, “is a luxury which I never permit myself. He had never liked to be hugged, but she wondered if his corporeal needs would be made apparent by human touch. I bent over him. Her fingers passed over a cunningly wrought surface of wood, with just the correct amount of protrusion, the precise colours of dyed leather, and cleverly gilded surfaces and neatly painted lettering. He opened it—just off-hand, and then when he saw what it was he hit at the table and sent his soup spoon flying and splashing on to the tablecloth.
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