You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone. But escape to where? She thought of the ships that sailed from the peninsulas to hot deserts where spices were traded. “Yes. You should go home today and get some rest. There came a wild rush of anthropological lore into her brain, a flare of indecorous humor.
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