She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. “When did you start?” She said between puffs. To reach the door they had to pass the end of the table, and behind the chair where Mr. “How will you live?” she appealed. Disappointment flickered in Gerald’s chest, and he did not hesitate to speak his mind, unable to help a reproachful note. There was no broken faith—not even any question of anything of the sort. It would be downright cruel to disillusion her.
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