"As long as you please, Sir," answered the matron, dropping a curtsey. It was time to disappear, no more Becks, no more Spaghetti Nights, no more afternoon kisses in the park with John Diedermayer. They had got all this down already—they heard the substance of it now for the fourteenth time. But, uttering a loud cry, he was swept away by the headlong torrent. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting.
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