The piece, in three movements, was short enough anyway. “Tell him to drive—anywhere,” she exclaimed. She drank and drank until his body was a lifeless husk, as light as a mannequin, virtually hollow of all but the fluid in his bones. Well, I've had to be. There was an air of repressed gaiety in her actions: the sense of freedom had returned; her heart was empty again. The devil is on top, not below. We had no idea. The whole of that relationship persisted in remaining obscure. Spurlock lay with his head on his arms, asleep.
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