Sometimes a whole morning would pass without Spurlock uttering a word beyond the request for a drink of water. Their small talk continued. My foster mother, Janine, wasn’t much fatter. The action steadied him; and there was a phase of irony, too, that helped. She was aware of the body of the court, of clerks seated at a black table littered with papers, of policemen standing about stiffly with expressions of conscious integrity, and a murmuring background of the heads and shoulders of spectators close behind her. ‘Let’s see now.
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