She dared not look directly at him, her head obscured by a gray hoodie, she had the slumped appearance of an androgynous adolescent. There was no point in rushing into the long walk home. Was he, too, on the way to the beach? What a pity! All alone, and none to warn him of the abject wretchedness at the end of Drink. Planting his knee against her side, he pulled her towards him with one hand, while with the other he sought his knife. She came to her one day and pulled on her apron. They made a stratum into which Ann Veronica was now plunged up to her neck; it had become her stratum. And Ann Veronica walked beside him, trying in vain to soften her heart to him by the thought of how she had ill-used him, and all the time, as her feet and mind grew weary together, rejoicing more and more that at the cost of this one interminable walk she escaped the prospect of—what was it?—“Ten thousand days, ten thousand nights” in his company.
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