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Show 121 white pulled back hard, tears in her eyes. And on the last canvas - which was aerial in point of view -- would be Rex Schoefield, dressed in a tangerine- colored, boaed housecoat, holding a platinum fright wig in his hands, standing in his back yard in the dark and, it appeared, smiling. And Hunt could even hear her - they were that close - hear what it was that Leah would be uttering: ". . . Hunt, Hunt, Hunt," she would be saying to herself, her heart hanging like macrame, ". . . No . . . Why? . . . Hunt, Hunt, Hunt." When Leah wandered, in fact, out again onto the patio, her eyes dimly glazed, Hunt -- reaching for words even vaguely like conversation -- said, ". . .He went home." Leah said nothing. Pretending it possible that she had not heard, Hunt said again, " . .. He went home." "Of course," Leah said. And she stared off into the world which she clearly, at that moment, felt exiled from. "Probably, I shouldn't have ..." Leah pressed her hands to her ears and shut her eyes. Then, from the center of her struck sound and light; she groped a question. It was as if she were trying to find the sound of a word, any logical word, in her mouth: "I know ... I know it must be a foolish question, Hunt," she managed. "I know there's no reason in the world that I should ask this - let alone, expect an answer . . . But, Hunt: why?" And Hunt knew that in his confusion of trying to give, he had once again |