I can't concentrate on my work. "Do nothing without consulting my father—your father, Thames," she implored. He sat alone in his brother’s old car night after night that summer, staring blankly at the red sky beyond the abandoned farmhouse where she had once shown him her secrets. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. There will be long stretches of idleness, heat, and enervation; and always the odour of drying coconut.
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