The Interpreter’s job, without knowing where all the words originated, had been clarifying, in order to convey often convoluted meanings. It was in this instant and not before that the Interpreter knew that there were many sources for the words and that she, herself, was but one of them. She adjusted herself to the situation, and computed another flash of knowledge: it wasn’t the woman on the orange cushions to whom Stanley was listening. Somehow, the Buffer sat in front of the woman, absorbing the blows, and speaking the words. The Buffer was catching whatever pain the knowledge behind the
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