Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. She stared out of the paned glass window, watching the trees being blown bare by the gale force. It did seem germane to the matter that so many of the people “in the van” were plain people, or faded people, or tired-looking people. She looked down tassels of his shiny shoes with a scowl. There is only Gerald to see me, after all. “Not really.
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