You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. He wondered if these abnormal mental activities presaged illness. As Melusine approached the door, she saw Kimble speed up. She admired his backside as he fetched a blue towel from his bathroom. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed. ‘Oh, we was always in there, miss,’ admitted Joan, moving closer.
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