she had wept because she had thought of that man from Cholon--her lover and suddenly she wasn't sure of not having loved him with a love she hadn't seen because it had lost itself in the story like water in the sand and that she was rediscovering it now in this moment of music flung across the sea.
Years after the war, after the marriages, the children, the divorces, the books, he had come to Paris with his wife.
He had phoned her.
He wad intimidated.
His voice trembled and with the trembling it had found the accent of China again.
He knew she'd begun writing books.
He had also heard about the younger brother's death.
He had been sad for her and he hadn't known what to tell her and then he'd told her that it was as before that he still loved her that he would never stop loving her that he would love her until his death.
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