The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. ” He rowed a stroke and watched the swirl of water from his oar broaden and die away. ” “Let us say that Café Maston, in the Boulevard des Italiennes, at half-past seven then,” he decided. ‘Nevertheless, you will marry me,’ he snarled. And by degrees, perhaps, that maiden distrust of yours that makes you shrink from my kisses, will vanish.
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