She herself, and one other there, recognized the interposition of something akin to tragedy. The prostitute’s attack was predictable, typical. . Martin’s parents looked at each other in embarrassed, silent communication. She mentioned, with familiar respect, Christ and Buddha and Shelley and Nietzsche and Plato. Bottles and glasses usurped the place of dishes and plates. Journeying blindly half way across the world, this man had found his quarry.
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