After what seemed like an eternity he turned right onto a dirt road that ended unceremoniously at a copse of leafless trees. She drew a chair to the window and stared at the splendour of the tropical night. The third time she escaped she reached the inconsequent barricade of the overturned table. Winds returned, the gardens withered, and roses would not bloom. She veiled her emotion by taking off his overcoat. It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers.
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