He felt her warm breath upon his cheek, the perfume of her hair as she leaned over him. It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. His shoulders were bent, his face was furrowed with wrinkles. Without hindrance—present occupation. She should be lifted out of her narrow little life, and it should be all owing to him.
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