He was leaning against a window frame, his hat in his hand. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. He had made it even easier by walking up the steps instead of taking the elevator. The freezing water lapped around her ankles as she ran along its edge, marveling at the thousands of tiny white spiral shells the tide had brought in. Kneebone, Van Galgebrok, and Baptist Kettleby—all of whom greeted him cordially.
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