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Unformatted text preview: ror. I held back. I did not fight, I tried with all my might to relax into this thing, to fall into it, even as it seemed I was losing consciousness. What followed was an eternity of such confusion. It was two of the clock when next I had a coherent thought. I was sitting in the Rue Dumaine, still, but in a cafe, at a small marble-top table. I was smoking a cigarette, and my body was exhausted and full of aches, and I realized I was staring at the bartender, who stooped over me to ask again, perhaps for the sixth time: "Monsieur, another before we close?" "Absinthe." My own voice came in a hoarse whisper out of my throat. There was no part of me that didn't hurt. "You damned son of a bitch," I said in my secret voice, "what the hell have you been doing with me?" But there came no answer. It was too damned exhausted to answer. It had possessed me for hours and run about in my form. Good God, there was mud on my clothes; look at my shoes. And my pa...
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This note was uploaded on 02/20/2010 for the course WRITING 220.200 taught by Professor Julie during the Spring '10 term at Johns Hopkins.
- Spring '10