His salvation—if there was to be any—lay in her ignorance of life. He had his sections of the Siegfried map folded in his pocket, and he squatted up with his legs crossed like an Indian idol while she lay prone beside him and followed every movement of his indicatory finger. ‘She wouldn’t tell me. It was dusty, with dirty clothing strewn about, a cracked basin thick with grime on the rickety dresser, and a film of grease on the leaded casement. It’s a sort of guarantee of confidence.
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