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Updated: May 15, 2025
He nodded to the open trap-door overhead. "She sleeps up there, don't she?" whispered the fat man. "She never sleeps," muttered the other. "Got the stuff?" he asked drowsily. Joses produced a bottle from the pocket of his cloak. Monkey looked around. "Where's a blurry bucket?" he asked, and with faltering hands inverted the one on which he had been sitting.
He saw himself distinctly in this rôle, more distinctly, even, than in the blurry mirror before which he performed his morning toilet. It was no especial wonder that he did so. Ever since he had been old enough to pay heed to anything, his mother had been holding the picture up before his eyes. Catie, however, refused to be impressed by the picture.
He wanted to say yes. He wanted to tell her how he was hurt and why. But the words wouldn't or couldn't come. "No," he said. "My eyes are just a little blurry, that's all. From sleep." She nodded, accepting his statements. "Here. You eat you this. Put some stuffing in you belly." He ate, not caring what the food tasted like. He didn't speak, and neither did she, for which he was thankful.
Sadie Barnet paused in the act of brushing out the cloud of her dark hair, and with a strong young gesture ran the thread through the needle, knotting its end with a quirk of thumb and forefinger. "It's the drops, Dee Dee, and this gaslight, all blurry from the curling-iron in the flame, makes you see bad."
But he still smiled. When we trotted off for the last time the score board said: "Harvard, 22; Opponents, 0." And those blurry white figures up there paid for all the hard work of the year. It was past seven when we assembled for dinner. About all the old players for twenty years back were there and it sounded like a sewing circle. Bi was one of the last to come in.
Things were getting blurry and disconnected, and never improved. He did remember singing, probably off-key, and later hanging onto Hovan's arm for support. Hovan felt a tug on his sleeve and looked down to see a silly grin on Steve's upturned face.
Also, whenever our road drew near the railway, we'd caught exciting glimpses of long trains "camouflaged" in blurry greens and blues, to hide themselves from aeroplanes. Nevertheless, Mother Beckett had begun to droop.
She didn't mind getting high once in awhile, but the smoke in her lungs felt foreign and unhealthy. Amber, who smoked cigarettes occasionally, dragged away with gusto, the little pothead. Art was following her around with his eyes as though he were chained. She served and poured; they ate and drank. The evening got blurry. Willow told them about the chickadee and about playing Cripple Creek.
For one more long satisfying moment he had another glimpse of the little group, still faithfully waving, still watching. How very, very far away they were! Suddenly the glass grew so blurry and queer it was no more good, and he handed it back to the woman.
The letters of the words were topped by a faint and blurry purple line, showing that the heavy envelope had undergone troubles by being rolled into a typewriter. "Excuse me," said Trask. He tore it open just as the bar-boy appeared with a tray decorated with stone ginger jars and glasses.
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