But escape to where? She thought of the ships that sailed from the peninsulas to hot deserts where spices were traded. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. Daughters were in the air that day. Ah, Thierry and Poussaint, if my memory serves me.
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