She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. “Are you in a hurry? Will you come in and have some coffee?” He hesitated, and glanced towards her companion. Love—admiration for your matchless beauty alone sways me. He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips. Toys! Delicate trifles! A sex of invalids. And Leonardo told me never to trust any man. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach.
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