I can smell you. And she buried herself beneath the straw, which she tossed above her head with the wildest gestures. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. When I think of those ateliers of ours, the art jargon, the decadents with their flamboyant talk I long for a twoedged sword and a minute of Divinity. Wood, who were, furthermore, engaged in a little conjugal tête-à-tête of their own.
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