He touched it again, and this time it was not withdrawn. A moment before, the surface of the stream was black as ink. Nothing anyone could say or do would change him. On the Day he had trumpet-like outbreaks of cordiality, varied by a watchful preoccupation. In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone.
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