“We played at love-making in Paris. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. I think she might be up to something. If they entered a shop, he paused by the doorway, as if waiting for the journey to be resumed.
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