There was an air of repressed gaiety in her actions: the sense of freedom had returned; her heart was empty again. One point in her narrative stood out beyond all others. ‘Can I not leave you for a day without you getting yourself into trouble?’ ‘Imbecile,’ she uttered faintly. She had better escape if she can. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. It's mighty lonesome down there for a man bred to cities. “Thanks, Mister McCloskey. He removed his cigarette from his lips and waved it gently in the air. Her loneliness was consuming, Lucia. ‘Dieu du ciel, for what do you take me?’ ‘I don’t know,’ he threw at her.
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