She wallowed for a time in the thought of Capes, unable to escape from his image and the idea of his presence in her life. They should never come into contact with politics or economics—or any of those things. Her fingers found the lump she sought and, with a little effort, she dragged out the black-wrapped foil. Sebastian rose from the tomb. The walls were pristine white and unmarked except for two sconces and a rather colorless Monet poster that had been framed in an expensive oak surround. They are blinded to all fine and subtle things —they look at life with bloodshot eyes and dilated nostrils. "No"—as if her thoughts were elsewhere.
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