47 was no more than a sort of railway compartment on the way to that. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. It probably had its own repulsive oubliette in the bottom, where tiny princesses could fall and break their necks. “It’s bound to be all right,” she said. Fifteen from forty is twenty-five. Many things were only words, sounds; she could not construct these words and sounds into objects; or, if she did, invariably missed the mark.
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