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The day is gathering itself in.
The growing complexity of lights threatens him. He is being drawn into Philadelphia. He hates Philadelphia.
“The only way to get somewhere, you know, is to figure out where you’re going before you go there.” Rabbit catches a whiff of whisky. He says in a level way, “I don’t think so.” The lips and spectacles and black hairs poking out of the man’s tear-shaped nostrils show no surprise. Rabbit pulls out, going straight. Everybody who tells you how to act has whisky on their breath.
The rich earth seems to cast its darkness upward into the air.
Today is Saturday, and the sky has that broad bright blunt Saturday quality Rabbit remembers from boyhood,
The waiter goes away like a bridesmaid with his bouquet of unwanted silver.
Tothero’s mouth is full of food and his hunger for revenge is ugly.
