The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. He meditated, and began a new paragraph. “I don’t want to take up your time. He drifted in and out of consciousness. ” “That is another French custom,” he remarked, “which is not so agreeable. He will not help them—and I told Emile so—and thus he sends them to my other grandpére, even that he knows he is dead.
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