Larch said patiently, 'some of the women who come here don't _look_ pregnant. ' Lorna curled herself into a ball around one of the pillows; she covered her head with the other pillow. Homer Wells, at the moment, couldn't construct a history or anything else that would be soothing to Curly Day, who buried himself under several pillows and a blanket and sobbed. Homer saw them marching uphill; there were more of them than he'd remembered.
As Homer came and went, he regarded those questions he had answered with such able lies—for example, it Worthington had left the light over the stairs on for him, and when he saw the light under her bedroom door, he said, quietly, 'Good night, Missus Worthington. Larch knew, wasn't what most would have called a hurried departure. 'The kid's got fiction in his blood,' Wally would tell Homer Wells.
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