It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. Lucy sat beside him. "I can't hold it much longer—it'll break my wrist. She tried to imagine herself “getting something,” to project herself as sitting down at a desk and writing, or as returning after her work to some pleasantly equipped and free and independent flat. ’ ‘It’s not that,’ the nun said urgently, ‘but I’ve remembered something important. I always fall on my feet, you know.
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