The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. I wonder how it is,” she added, “that boys always make love so impertinently. The last thing that she remembered was her eyes crossing as she tried to focus upon the crunch of leaves as she lay heaving upon them, dampening them further with the outpouring of her sweat as it leaked from her clothing. I took the usual way home. “My dear Vee!” Her voice became very low.
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