Her acrid rose perfume oil that hung in the air that smelled like a head shop, her V. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. And stony broke. The moisture from the sea was constant, and she spent countless hours staring at the sea from the west tower, the rise and fall of waves. There was no point in rushing into the long walk home. Roof open —like a Noah’s Ark. He knocked his pipe on the teak rail. 1 through 1.
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