“I’m still inside you. And here against a wall were the plumtrees. You simply can't get good oil down there, so I must husband the few drams I carry. Yet the smoke was curling upwards in a faint innocent-looking cloud to the ceiling. What the editor had to say none of the three cared just then. All her protests seemed stifled before she could find words to utter them. She packed her backpack with a change of clothes, some rags, and her old length of piano wire.
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