Jack, meanwhile, heard, the shouts, and, though alarmed by them, held on a steady course. She tucked the mission Bible under her arm, and crooking a finger at Rollo, went forth to the west beach where the sou'-west surge piled up muddily, burdened with broken spars, crates, boxes, and weeds. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. “The surgeon’s knife is surely a kindly weapon,” she declared.
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