Her unnatural calm was giving way. Nothing. The air became hot and swollen with June humidity. ‘You were supposed to be nursing him,’ Martha grumbled, ‘and helping him convalesce. Then she sat watching the play, sometimes offering a helpful suggestion, sometimes letting her attention wander to the smoothly shining arms she had folded across her knees just below the edge of the table. She shrank from him as he gripped her hand more forcibly. ‘This, as you see, is an identity for your cousin, André Valade.
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