There were always parrots and parrakeets screaming in the fruit groves. There he sat, cheerfully friendly in his sex’s freedom—the man she loved, the one man she cared should unlock the way to the wide world for her imprisoned feminine possibilities, and he seemed regardless that she stifled under his eyes; he made a jest of all this passionate insurgence of the souls of women against the fate of their conditions. She’s so embarrassed about it that she only wears one-piece swimsuits when she tans outside. You are more in my power than I am in yours. He hated horizons.
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