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Show 101 II The first chill of unidentified treachery had begun to creep through his bones about the time Yvonne decided to move again. This time it was a small bungalow on Goshen Avenue, with a northern exposure looking onto the VA cemetery in West Los Angeles. She took him with her, of course, though he had been perfectly happy in her studio apartment in Westwood with its freckled walls and moldy tile on the sink, just as he had been content in her duplex in Santa Monica with its back yard containing a grapefruit tree and someone's dismantled bicycle tilted against the garage. Lorin was comparatively indifferent to these moves himself (except that he found he had a hard time painting for a week or so after each uprooting), but he worried about their effect on her. Yvonne dreaded moving, he knew, and he also knew this dread was associated with her fear of death. Still, each move excited her. She brought in friends to help. She threw on old clothes and flew from room to room, directing the removal of this trunk, that packing case, to whose car it should go, laughing hysterically when the bottom fell out of a carton in someone's arms spilling shoes and cosmetic cases. The wall hangings were rolled up, a small plaster statue of a nursing mother that had stretched at ease on the carpet was packed away in a nest of blankets; the stones, the shells, countless baskets, a stringless lute, bolts of oatmealy fabric, a large board on which were |