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Under a hat that seemed to collapse on either side of her head, the woman's face was thin and chalk- white except for the fatigue lines under her eyes. I liked Greek Revival better than this Modernist-bunker stuff. She would call it unconsciously installed authority. I do appreciate it. Fenstad touched her and she snapped toward him.
Nelson said, still looking at her tree.
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Her jeans were patched, and she gave off a strong smell, something Baxtef hay, Fenstad thought, mixed with tar and sweat. Fenstad's mother headed straight for him and sat down in the desk next to his. Arlene Hubbly's paper was about mushroom hunting. She sat near the door and knitted during class. He saw York Follette laugh quietly and nod. He and his mother exchanged glances. He'd been thinking about housrwifes people for the entire week.
At the front of the class Fenstad started his lecture on logic, but his mother wouldn't quiet down. The eyes themselves were bright blue, beautiful, and crazy. The woman's mouth was hiusewifes, and her stagnant-water breath washed over him.
He realized it simply because of the way she sat there, drawn into herself, attentive even in the winter dark. Fenstad's mother smiled and nodded.
Fenstad's mother was leaning back against the pillow, smiling, her eyes closed. It was beautiful. His mother was still pushing the coat at her, and the woman was unsteadily bracing herself. Goodness comes to her without any effort at all. All rights reserved. Fenstad was put off by the introduction.
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His mother was watching him carefully, and her face was expressing all the complexity of dismay. He thought for ten seconds.
She listened attentively to his story about his mother and the woman in the restaurant. I don't know why he didn't test out of this class. The sky Baaxter cleared; the moon gave everything a cold, fine-edged clarity. He could see little other than the two lenses of her glasses facing him in the dark.
She pushed the play button on the tape machine, and "Tales From the Vienna Woods" came booming out. The disadvantage to mushrooms is that they can make you sick, even die. Follette turned toward Fenstad. When Barb Kjellerud asked for volunteers, Fenstad's mother raised her hand. Fenstad's mother walked deliberately toward the door, shaking her head mistrustfully at the building and the police.
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Occasionally he glanced at the mert of the room. She answered questions without looking up. What is the problem? WHEN they arrived at the school, snow had started to fall, and at the other end of the parking lot a police car's flashing light beamed long crimson rays through the dense flakes. He decided to treat it as a command.
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She wasn't used to such noise: she stopped in the middle of the corridor underneath a wall clock and stared happily in no particular direction. When he ot the snow away on his mother's side, she looked out at him, surprised, a terribly aged Sleeping Beauty awakened against her will. The applause was quiet but apparently genuine. A few of the students began to applaud; others ed in.
They had been divorced for a decade, but Fenstad's mother hoped for a reconciliation. Her usual Bazter of tough optimism seemed to be deserting her.
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In the picture King was shaking hands with Fenstad's mother, the two of them surrounded by smiling faces. Fenstad heard his mother snicker.
go She was angry with him for collaborating with grammar. The sight of the new snow didn't seem to calm her. He found none and immediately felt relief.
He watched as she made her way past the security guard at the front desk; then he put his car into drive and started home. He grabbed the woman's chapped, ungloved left hand. Maybe it was a trick question.