. ’ He moved to his friend and grasped his hand in a gesture as deliberately dramatic as the storytelling of mademoiselle. Help—should she need it—from the natives was out of the question. The jailers robbed the prisoners: the prisoners robbed one another. “It is not an easy matter,” he said, “for me to offer you an altogether adequate explanation. You have taken my dagger. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. ‘Can you not open it?’ she cried. She passed down the stairs and into the street.
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