She began to want to lay her head down on his chest but absolutely denied herself. But she did not speak. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. “I do not know what you mean,” he said, “but if you are referring to any little coolness since our marriage let us never speak of it again. Every time you mention the father, she turns into marble. They are arbitrary and unjust and dogmatic and brutish and lustful. ” He did not appear to require any answer to his question.
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