She took refuge in beating her pillow and inventing insulting epithets for herself. "It's the skull of a rebel," said Jonathan, with marked emphasis on the word, "blown by the wind from a spike on the bridge above us. ‘Damn you, what’s the matter with you?’ he snapped in frustration. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky.
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