" She made the companion without touching stay or rail, which necessitated a fine sense of balance, for there was a growing vigour to the wind and a corresponding lift to the roll of the sea. "What for?" rejoined Quilt, evasively. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. Why do I want him so badly? Why do I want him, and think about him, and fail to get away from him? “It isn’t all of me. If you owe your confinement to me, you shall owe your liberation to me, also.
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