" "How so?" asked Thames. ” Michelle sat in a yogi’s posture on the cold plywood, her eyes closed as if meditating. ‘Me, I do not need the help of anyone. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky. One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing. Almost instantly she had recognized the fallacy of such a statement. I suppose it is the mirrors and decorations.
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