Then suddenly her spirit rose in revolt. She enjoyed preparing the evening meals, the smells of potatoes roasting in the oven, the stink of onions in the pan, the crackle of chicken frying. She took the initiative and guided his fingers inside her and bore down. For a moment her thoughts led her back to the evening when she and Courtlaw had stood together before the window of her studio in Paris, before the coming of Sir John had made so many changes in her life. There will be long stretches of idleness, heat, and enervation; and always the odour of drying coconut. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. "When a man reaches the lowest scale through drink, we call him a beachcomber. That knot also would be cut. And then her pace slackened. Enter the house with your men.
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