There was a girlfriend who was mentally ill. I have always hated it. You can come back for these, for you’ll carry him to the gatehouse, that’s what you’ll do. He loved you. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. You’re never going to believe this, by the way.
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