In rushed Mr. His eyes looked a little bloodshot to her; his face had lost something of its ruddy freshness. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. He turned to her and pinned her against the headrest with his kisses.
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