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He climbed on top of her, pressing her into the couch cushions, the gown billowing around them like a cotton candy parachute. ’ She set down her glass with a snap. Spurling, half aside. Restraining with an effort his intense curiosity, he talked of general subjects only, trying his best to entertain her. Too late now. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. He watched her constantly, trapped her in corners and slept with his arms locking her like a human cage. Lonesomeness isn't my worry.
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