It was past seven when she got back to her hotel. There were groves of cultivated guava, orange, lemon, and pomegranate. Husbands and wives, young lovers, and mothers with strollers thronged in the streets, all savoring the fine cool weather. She did not have to investigate that his door was locked. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. “It was poison—why not?” she answered.
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