They had cried a little, both. Fritz flailed against his mother wildly, crying generous tears. By following her he had discovered her secret nook in the rocks. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. Goopes, she was sure was always high-browed and slow and Socratic. “I have waited for this,” he said, and stood quite still, looking at her until the silence became oppressive.
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