She felt a hysterical desire to strike him, to burst out crying, to blurt out the whole miserable truth. He returned to the car, Cokes in hand. It is queer how ideas pop into one's head. He laughed. My poor brain is so mixed, dear, I hardly know what I am saying. She drew up a chair and sat down, putting her palm on the damp, cold forehead. I was afraid of being talked about. Be on your guard.
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