The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. He shut his eyes and groped for the wall to steady himself, wondering if this bit of mummery would get over. She was always the last person to exit after the crowds had stampeded, trailing slowly behind them like dust. And so, here we are, right back from where we started. He did it, he said, “to distract his mind. Stonily he had disengaged himself. Perhaps her odd beauty—and that too was natural—stirred these thoughts into being. “Let me hasten,” she said, “to reassure you. It may be instinctive; it may be that children vaguely realize that at the end of all wedding journeys is disillusion. And don't neglect my instructions this time. "Oh! that was all, was it?" said the turnkey, quietly reseating himself.
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