“He’s coming,” Rhoda said, leaning forward. The white lashes made them look like ghost-eyes. He was the eggman, he was the eggman, he was the laughing hyena. It's interesting to him how few seem to notice it.
He could feel Pete's arms around his waist, holding on mostly by instinct now, the way a nearly beaten fighter clinches with his opponent to keep from hitting the canvas. It didn't worry them. He brought himself up short: why had he thought of that afternoon at the Thalia now? Theseweren’t children. The brain’s intact.
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