She put a hand to the lad’s cold cheek and choked on a sob. Do so; and I am yours as heretofore. They had been married for well over one hundred years. “I want my life to be beaten gold just in order to make it a fitting setting for yours. There were groves of cultivated guava, orange, lemon, and pomegranate. A stack of chimneys, on the house above them, had yielded to the storm, and descended in a shower of bricks and stones. The shops were lighting up into gigantic lanterns of color, the street lamps were glowing into existence, and she had lost her way. He seldom spoke, and drank with a persistence that was sinister. They were in many respects so right; she clung to that, and shirked more and more the paradoxical conviction that they were also somehow, and even in direct relation to that rightness, absurd. There was a hint of tears in her voice.
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