She had prepared herself to meet violent protest, a recurrence of that burning glance. The dizziness made the trees sickening, the smell of Michelle’s perfume soapy and revolting. She bound a scarf tightly round the place where the blood seemed to be coming from. She watched them sleep for what seemed hours from the high window until her body grew colder than the stone sill she perched upon. By a sort of instinct. Spurling.
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