The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. “What is the good of pretending?” she said. I didn't understand then, but I do now. “Yes. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. They walked side by side for a time. He watched her, savoring her curious attention. Only you good ones— shirk.
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