The girl was flushed with excitement, bright-eyed, and braced for a struggle; her aunt had never seen her looking so fine or so pretty. He understood now that it was a part of her inheritance. He had not had time to aim the pistol. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. She washed her face twice after making smudgy eyeshadow and lipstick errors. \"Where are you going?\" She cried. The address was of course her destination, thousands of miles away, an infinitesimal spot in a terrifying space. Her hair had begun to grow back, it now swept to her shoulders. She felt her chest trying to float up, but the blessed undertow, the dreaded reason why she was warned to never bathe in the ocean, sucked her feet down, putting the decision where it belonged, into the hands of God. There was a pint of champagne and a quart of mineral water (both taboo) at his elbow.
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