The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. 260 “Can you turn me into one?” “Yes, I can turn you into one tonight. Any natural fineness would be numbed by drink. But whenever the storm grew dangerous, either McClintock or Spurlock broke into saving laughter. How could you draw the curtain aside which hides the great and holy places of life—you, who have never loved?” “You have become French to the core,” she murmured. You can’t look me in the eyes and say you don’t care for me. “All the time he is shouting and muttering. He reminds me of a slave I once had in Rome with those sullen dark eyes and that wistful pout. To divide the agony into two spheres so that one would mitigate the other. Befuddle yourself, if you want to. They’re too free for their innocence or too innocent for their freedom.
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