Sebastian traveled at seventy, eighty, then one-hundred down the freeway. “Go to the far corner,” he said, “and sing the last verse of Les Petites. ‘Laisse-moi,’ she threw at him, her brief attack of sobs already ended, although the trace of tears on her cheeks bore witness to its sincerity. I must break open the door. She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects.
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