It seemed to emanate from the back of the house. The wheel and the navigating instruments were sternward, under a spread of heavy canvas, a protection against rain and sun. She stood there limply and did not act to resist him. I asked you to go. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. Our quarrel's quite over. “I am tired,” she said, “and I want to rest. Rituals instead of medicines.
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