She had already killed more than she wanted to count, yet she had counted them still. ‘I thought—I thought I saw my—my husband. " Still his brain refused to assimilate the news or to deduce the tremendous importance of it. “Listen! There was a Meysey Hill in Paris, an American railway millionaire. “Your mother was a Gypsy. It wasn’t. ” “You know, Mr. His heir is dead, yes, and his name and title available to me. ” “Well, fuck you too. ” He relapsed into a stony silence. Most people, every one I know else, seem to have mated with foreigners and to talk uneasily in unfamiliar tongues, to be afraid of the knowledge the other one has, of the other one’s perpetual misjudgment and misunderstandings. She looked at me as though I were some unclean thing, as though my soul were weighted with every sin in the calendar.
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