She would become defensive—what she did would be the thing that mattered. A deep dread calm, like that which precedes a thunderstorm, now prevailed amongst the assemblage. It seemed to her that her father was in some inexplicable way meaner-looking than she had supposed, and yet also, as unaccountably, appealing. She so wanted to keep her memory of him fresh, so wanted to memorize his kisses and to conjure his embrace someday when he was mere dust in the ground.
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