‘Ain’t no call for you to go a-blaming of yourself. From the white beach the palms ran in serried rows quarter of a mile inland, then began a jungle of bamboo, gum-tree, sandalwood, plantain, huge fern, and choking grasses. I have written, called—of what avail is anything—against that look. It was the first day you kissed me, under the willows, coming into Veraz. She walked back to the car. She goes out and comes home.
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