‘Laisse-moi,’ she threw at him, her brief attack of sobs already ended, although the trace of tears on her cheeks bore witness to its sincerity. “I have the right of the man who loves you,” he declared. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. She wedged the towel between her legs. I have written, called—of what avail is anything—against that look.
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