She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. “One is always playing the surgeon, one kills always the thing one loves best. She was glad not to be baking in it anymore, or feeling the fiberglass splinters 64 invading her rear end from sitting on the bleachers. Yet the smoke was curling upwards in a faint innocent-looking cloud to the ceiling.
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