The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. Whatever he wrote he was: he became this or that character, he suffered or prospered equally. “Oh, damn!” he said. ” His rhythm slowed to a grind. ‘Will you—what was it?—“blow off his head”?’ Melusine eyed her, a little uncertain. Without realizing what she has done, she's made a dreadful mess of it.
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