“He’d better treat you right this time or I’ll pulverize him, you hear?” Lucy gave in to the hug. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. 32 The curtains and tapestries had appeared over the windows before Marina had died, growing moldy from the dampness and the oils of lavender, clove, and clary sage soaking them. Could she go through with it? She must. So, here he was, on the last lap of middle age, in China, having missed all the thrills in life except one—the war against Death.
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