\"Lucy?\" He called her as she turned. She had carried a chair into the room veranda and had watched and listened until the night silences had lengthened and only occasionally she heard a voice or the rattle of rickshaw wheels in the courtyard. “Sebastianus? Where did my husband go?” He smiled at her gently, patronizingly, as he prevented her from movement or escape. Her acrid rose perfume oil that hung in the air that smelled like a head shop, her V. Perhaps he had had money in the coat, back in Hong-Kong, and had been robbed without knowing it.
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