The Well Hole. She slept in a bedroom clad in linens and skins, walked down hallways bedecked in the most gay and colorful frescos. She had but to choose. ” She stopped abruptly, and turned about toward the front door. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. She would never, never go back. “I will make of the days and weeks one long morning, but remember the afternoon must come. He picked up the broken fiddle and beckoned. .
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