‘Then it must certainly be Eugénie. Even now, during the recurring doubts of the future, the thought of the island was repellent. So far he had not stirred; from his bloodless lips had come no sound. That’s how it takes me. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. All of us were fussy, colicky babies from what she tells me.
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