“And foolish for letting myself be used. For feeling anything. Was it all a game to her? A little fling that she’d instantly regretted? The leaves around me were dripping but the rain had stopped, although the sky was dark with sullen clouds. At the junction with the route des Matelots I paused. I wanted a drink. I wanted several. But I didn’t want to talk to anyone, or see anyone, which meant the hotel was out. There was an almost full bottle of Étienne’s Calvados in my cottage. That would do. ...Then I remembered the bottle of wine I had taken to the chapel after Lorca’s last visit. She’d wanted a drink and I hadn’t had anything to offer her, so I’d stowed away a Beaujolais with my painting gear. I headed for the chapel; it was closer than my cottage. A thin sheen of water covered the sand of the causeway. The tide was coming in. The sandpipers were gone. I took off my shoes and socks and rolled up the bottoms of my trousers, my feet throwing up splashes as I crossed. Inside, I tossed my sketchbook and paintbox onto the table and lit the oil lamp.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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