‘Or flew in by balloon, perhaps. Her neck was smeared with red and remorse flooded him. You seemed to me to be slipping and slipping, and your face was white. We are the species, and maternity is our game; that’s all right, but nobody wants that admitted for fear we should all catch fire, and set about fulfilling the purpose of our beings without waiting for further explanations. Of course she had taken the boy as her lover, acting as his muse.
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