He's the only native I trust in these parts. His food lay untouched about his plate. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. The knife is at my breast. I won't dig their graves with my nails. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed.
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