It was a young girl who overheard me when I was on my third shopkeeper who answered my question. Still—I don’t know whether I quite like—Something ramshackle about those people, Vee. ‘Do not look at me so,’ he snapped. From there I plan to travel until I reach Columbia—but any lawless country will do. Give me your name, girl!’ ‘Again?’ Mademoiselle rolled her eyes. He was so depressed and disheartened that he did not then believe he would ever write again. "Where are you going?" she asked. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. He was consumed with desire.
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