He climbed on top of her, pressing her into the couch cushions, the gown billowing around them like a cotton candy parachute. Into this hole in the wall and out of it the native stream flowed from sunrise to sunset, when the stream mysteriously ceased. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago. Whether it was the nun’s habit or the harlot’s clothing that distressed her more, he could not begin to guess.
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