She descended down the stairs of the house, sidestepping the refuse from bingedrinking teenagers that was strewn everywhere. Then he could hear Hilary breathing beside him, and from outside the muted twittering of birds. The skies became brilliant; the dry monsoon was setting in. It isn’t law, nor custom, nor masculine violence settled that. She was conscious of a ceaseless undercurrent of sound—the guttural Chinese tongue. We stepped from the Embassy into the motor—and oh! I thought that he was dead.
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