Meanwhile, as the sun goes down over what’s left of the turpentine hamlet, the Broadhurst Witch is dancing through the rows of pines. She has a broom in her hands with which she slashes at pollen-thick air, muttering curses toward the pit. She does not want to be violated. Her long dress whips about her ankles as she dances her bitter jig. When she is done, she walks tiredly to her nonexistent shanty, goes inside, and closes the door. Out on the road, the trucks have stopped and only night-birds break the silence in the long wait for dawn.

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