He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. The emerald wings, slashed with scarlet and yellow, wheeling and swooping about her head, there among the wild plantain. He had a blue overstuffed couch, his own television, even a computer with its own desk. “As I have explained many a time, Lucia, the maladies of the blood and flesh do not afflict us. He had chosen his time well.
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