Charvill’s command of French was enough to tell him that, for its entire content was devoted to commending Nicholas Charvill’s fourteen year old daughter into the care of the Abbess. But it was the form of her ruling determination; it was the only form that she ever allowed to see daylight. She taught him how to sail a proa, how to hack open a milk-coconut, how to relish bamboo sprouts. She washed her face twice after making smudgy eyeshadow and lipstick errors. This man was her husband in the eyes of both God and man. Brown engaged in the usual browbeating and complaining he reserved for sections who came in late and soloists who left tempo behind like the leftovers of a Sunday picnic. He had bled everywhere, but she had struck when the opportunity was ripe. And, as he was about to put himself into a posture of defence, his mother clasped him in her arms.
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