Couldn’t make head nor tail of that note of yours. It was always jabbing him with white-hot barbs, waking or sleeping. Beyond was a chaise longue, covered with cushions and shawls laid anyhow across it, together with a discarded tapestry in the making, and a scattering of woollen threads about it. ‘Don’t want it to break out bleeding again. For some days we shall be very idle there among the trees and rocks.
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