It was red and chapped. For hours he seemed to have pleasant dreams of open skies and airplanes, but then the dreams would disintegrate into fleshy charnel house nightmares where he could hear her calling to him through a fog. Through one doorway she saw a grave Chinaman standing on a stage-like platform. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. For most of a long and fluctuating night she was fairly confident that she would find work; she knew herself to be strong, intelligent, and capable by the standards of most of the girls she knew. “It’s okay. Mrs.
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